


A Lot Like Falling

by komodobits



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean being a whiny bitch, F/M, M/M, Self-Harm, Some dub-con, reference to non-pairing character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 88,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komodobits/pseuds/komodobits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LJ DCBB 2012. Post-Swan Song AU. It’s just your run-of-the-mill monster hunt until Castiel suddenly powers down and loses all his mojo faster than a hooker siphoning petrol from the back of a customer’s truck. Completely lacking any sort of answer as to what the hell is going on, Team Free Will hole up within the safe confines of Bobby’s house, where at the very least there are books, tools, and a steady supply of peppermint tea. It’s pretty damn inconvenient, to be honest - Dean’s already got enough on his plate trying to work out his place in the aftermath of a very anticlimactic Apocalypse, without also having to babysit an angel who is on a daily basis growing ever weaker, sicker, and, by all indications, gayer than a maypole — thanks to Sam’s musical influence. However, as freak snowstorms pin them in place, and as days turn into weeks with no new answers, there are certain truths which must be confronted: that Dean’s frustration runs deeper than cabin fever, that there is a darkness inside Castiel rattling to rear its ugly head, and that the evil seeping into every crevice and corner of Bobby’s house is only getting started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The cabin's dark and doesn't smell too bloody. Okay, there's skin and flesh and bone on the floor, more shifter evidence, but it's fresh. It doesn't stink like it would if it'd been around long. Fairly new to the game - fairly easy to gank.

Dean kills the flashlight, gesturing for Sam to do the same. Castiel can see in the dark so it doesn't matter for him; Dean's just a little sad that the lights aren't on so he can see Castiel doing that stupid walk he does when he's trying to be really quiet, like he's Scooby Doo creeping around looking for freaking Scooby snacks. It's sort of goofy.

Dean trips on a loose bit of flooring and remembers to get his head in the game. He tightens his grip on his pistol, scanning the hallway's end further down before barging shoulder-first through the door to the left. It's lighter in there, the last rays of dusk falling in stripes across the dirty floor through cracks in boarded-up windows. From what Dean can see of the room, there are no bodies. No-one, living or dead, tied up so that a shifter can hold them hostage, use their form to go around killing people.

It's weird. Quiet, too.

Something smashes into the back of his head and almost instinctively his knees buckle, hands flying up to protect himself. Then fight trumps flight and he's straightening up, swinging around – but another punch has already caught him off-balance. The pistol is loose in his hand now as he's unfocused, dazed, and before he can get to grips again it's knocked out of his hand.

The body in which the shifter appears in front of him is female, petite, blonde. Not really his type anyway.

He draws the knife from the back of his jeans and goes for her throat.

She blocks it. Twists his arm. Pushes him back. Kick to the kneecap and he's down. Then Sam's got her. He grabs her by the arms, bends them behind her back but she's bendier than should be possible and manages to kick him in the face, way over her little curly-haired head. Two punches, one to the jaw, the other to the solar plexus, and Sam's pistol falls into her hands. Then the shifter throws Sam to the floor, and in a flash of hot panic that never goes away no matter how many hunts they go on, Dean sees the blunt press of the muzzle of a gun digging a claim in his brother's throat as they struggle together. Dean's on his feet in a second, skidding on broken glass and the soft shed flesh of the shifter's last body, but it takes him a second too long. Castiel gets there first, grabbing a handful of the shifter's long blonde hair and jerking her violently backwards away from Sam; he twists her to face him before he presses the flat of his palm to her forehead.

Dean and Sam instinctively flinch away, screwing their eyes up from the inevitable flash of blinding white as a bucket-load of angel mojo burns through the shifter's head.

The light never comes.

Castiel stands frozen, his eyebrows drawn tight together in concentration. He doesn't seem to recognise that his powers haven't worked until the shifter laughs and kicks out, catching him square in the chest, stiletto-heel-punch, and knocking him to the floor. His calm, careful and-now-shall-my-angel-juice-smite-thee-down expression slips and Dean sees his eyes fly impossibly wide with surprise and with something that Castiel would swear on his Father wasn't fear.

He scrambles back up, but then the shifter climbs elegantly to her feet and lashes out with a punch that crumples him again. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows one more time; one pointy boot lashes out at his face – once, twice - kicking Castiel's head back with a crack that sends him back to the floor, the back of his head hitting the concrete.

"What's wrong, angel?" she says, settling one foot on his chest and leaning seductively over him while he squirms. "You've barely got the grace to fry an egg. Huh. Where's Daddy when you need Him?"

Dean finds a crowbar left at the edge of the room by whatever labour-men used this cabin first, and hefts it up into one hand, ready to swing - but before he can take another step towards them, the shifter looks up, training Sam's pistol on Dean's head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she purrs, a smirk twisting her red-stained lips.

Dean laughs. He tightens his grip on the crowbar and attempts his most charming smile. "Look, lady, there's no way in hell that you can—"

The shifter lowers the pistol – now level with the crown of Castiel's forehead. Dean almost laughs again, opens his mouth to call her bluff, remind her that little bullets won't do shit on an angel of the Lord. However, there's something in the way that Castiel struggles beneath her, overwhelmed but too proud to call for help... it makes his stomach twist, like there's something he hasn't realised.

"Oh sweetie," she says lightly. "If you're not even up to smiting a shifter then how good are you going to be at healing the gaping hole in your skull?"

There's the click of her thumb cocking the pistol. Castiel is still now; he's fighting to keep his head up, blood dripping from his nose. Every breath is loud, shallow, ragged, as the shifter presses her foot down tight against his lungs.

"And how good are you gonna be at cleaning up your own blood from the walls?" Dean says arrogantly with a grin, swinging the crowbar experimentally. He won't look at the blurry movement behind the shifter; if his eyes so much as flicker, it's over. "I wouldn't be too sure about the little trenchcoat fairy, either," he goes on. Buying time. "I've seen him bluff his way through situations and smite the ectoplasm out of bigger bitches than you without breaking a sweat."

She arches one eyebrow. "Is that so?" She twists her heel into Castiel's chest and in spite of all his bravado, a low groan of pain pulls from his lips like she's squeezing it out of him. "I have to be honest... I'd like to see him try."

Then everything happens at the same time.

The shifter's finger flexes on the trigger – Castiel's got that stupid wide-eyed look of deer-in-headlights - Dean's eyes flash to his brother's with an unspoken NOW, SAMMY! – she realises what's happening, fear in her eyes – and Sam, having reacted even before Dean's signal, thrusts the small silver blade up through the back of her throat.

She judders twice, her spasms sending the gun off, but Sam has already grabbed her and twisted her away, out of harm's way.

Castiel slumps.

Dean lets go of the crowbar and races to Castiel's side, dropping to a crouch next to him. "Cas," he says urgently, grabbing his shoulder. "Dude, you okay? Cas?" He clenches a fist into the material of his trenchcoat, shaking him hard.

Castiel's eyes open blearily but don't focus. "Dean?" he asks. His voice is rougher than usual, the blood on his lips cracking as he speaks. He flinches as he tries to sit up; Dean holds on tight to the material of his coat and drags him to his feet. He sways.

"What the hell happened back there?" Dean demands, still not entirely sure that Castiel isn't just going to crumple like a house of cards.

"I don't know." Castiel spits out a glob of blood and stumbles. "I can't feel my grace."

Dean and Sam exchange a worried look. Then it becomes evident that the how's and why's are going to have to be something they focus on later, because Castiel's knees are slowly buckling and he's T-minus-ten from hitting the floor.

"Don't worry about it, man," Sam reassures him warmly, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. "We'll sort it out."

"I feel very unsteady."

"I'm not surprised," Sam comments. "I mean, no offence, but you really got the shit kicked out of you."

Castiel doesn't answer. There's a tight, hot lump in Dean's throat, looking at the blood dried on Castiel's face, the distant apathy in his eyes like surrender. Dean doesn't voice that; instead he wraps his arm tighter around Castiel and helps him out of the cabin, while Sam takes care of the shifter's body.

The two make slow, unsteady progress to the Impala, with Dean muttering blind encouragement like it's the only thing keeping Castiel up. By the time they reach the car, the acrid sting of salt and kerosene is already wafting through the air, indicating a job well done. Dean glances back only once at the flames flickering distantly in the tree-line. That shifter got everything that was coming to it.

Castiel sits heavily on the Impala's hood, propped up by Dean's shoulder so that he doesn't just fall off into the dirt. "Just wait one second," Dean tells him quietly, wrapping a hand around his upper arm for reassurance. "I've gotta get the first-aid kit. Can you sit up? Come on, Cas. It's barely ten seconds to the trunk. Alright?"

When Castiel nods, the movement nearly slides him off the front of the car, but he plants his feet solid against the dirt and holds still. Dean darts to the back, rummaging through for their med-kit and wondering what the hell they're gonna do. Castiel won't be able to fly and they'll have to drive him to Bobby to find out what the hell even happened.

He comes up triumphant, and hurries back. Castiel's eyes lift to watch him approach, plaintive and hopeless, and as soon as Dean sets down the first-aid box on the hood, he sags against him like a child.

"Cas, can you try to wake up a little?" Dean grumbles. "Come on, I can't do this if you don't sit up."

Castiel leans back a bit so that Dean can fish out a length of cloth that doesn't look too dirty from the box and dab tentatively at his head wound, but beyond that, Castiel has little enthusiasm for consciousness. He's awkward, with his drooping head and floppy limbs, but he's small and skinny enough that Dean can sort of control him.

"Seriously, Cas. I feel like I'm in charge of a big puppet." He lifts Castiel's cold arms like a big rag-doll. "My name is Castiel," he mimics in a ridiculously low voice, "and I am an angel of the—"

"Stop that." Sam comes up behind Dean, breathing heavy with a smudge of soot over his nose.

"Dean Winchester," Castiel mutters, "when I recover my power to smite... you will be the first on my list."

Dean's face falls and Sam throws him a smug I-told-you-so look. He guiltily focuses back on tending to the blood still trickling down Castiel's face, although not before telling Sam to call Bobby and let him know what's going on. Over Dean's dead body will Sam stand around doing jack all while Dean has to sit around clinging to their bruised, broken warrior of God to keep him upright.

Sam nods, burrowing in his pocket for his cell. Dean tips his head to better see the injury, gently pushing Castiel's hair back. "Sorry about the puppeteering," he says, but a smile cracks his lips. "Gotta admit it was pretty funny though. How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Pained." Castiel pauses for a moment. "Human."

"I don't get it – what happened to your mojo?" Dean asks, frowning as he wipes away the last of the blood. The wound's not too bad; it'll clear up. He reaches for a bandage. "Is it some kind of celestial cock-block? Or have you... you know - fallen? "

Castiel shakes his head, which is a little too energetic at the moment. He looks like he might throw up but then settles again. "No," he says quietly. "I still have my wings... which leads me to believe that my Grace is still present, if dormant." He looks up through eyes that are already swelling into the mother of all black-eyes, and he looks hopelessly lost. "I cannot imagine what would do this."

"Don't worry about it," Dean reassures him, feeling a surge of protectiveness wash over him as he carefully applies a small square gauze strip to the cut on Castiel's forehead. "We'll patch you up, get you to Bobby's and then we can work out what's going on, okay?" He rearranges the lapels of Castiel's coat carefully, seeing the way that Castiel flinches whenever he moves. "How're your ribs?"

"I don't think they're broken," he said quietly. He closes his eyes for a moment, looking old and thin and worn by war, but quickly opens them again when Dean opens the front of the angel's grubby trenchcoat. "What are you—"

Dean feels Castiel's eyes on him, serious and studying as ever, as he checks each rib. His calloused fingers press lightly through the thin material of his shirt, feeling each bone for unusual lumps or shards, feeling the dried blood crusted onto the cotton, feeling the soft warmth of Castiel's skin. One rib in particular makes Castiel's breath hiss through his teeth, tensing under Dean's hands. Dean feels bad to poke it again but does, just to be sure.

"Yeah – none broken," he confirms, straightening up, "but that one's cracked and you're going to have a hell of a stiletto-shaped bruise... I think you'll live though." He almost claps him on the shoulder but the way that his raised hand makes Castiel's eyes wary like an injured bird stops Dean.

"All the same... I don't think that the high-heeled shoe was one of my Father's greatest creations," Castiel says wearily.

Dean has to stare at him for a long moment to realise that he's making a joke and it's the knowledge that Castiel's trying to be funny, more than the nature of the joke, which makes Dean laugh low and shake his head, grinning. Then Sam comes striding back into the picture.

"Yeah," he's saying into the cell phone. "Yeah, sure thing. We'll see you in a couple of hours then. Alright. Thanks – bye." He presses a button, slides the cell back into his jeans and comes to join Dean and Castiel. "Bobby's at home and he's not doing much at the moment so he's gonna start looking up what could have happened to Cas' powers. He has a few ideas but we can discuss it when we get there."

"Okay." Dean bobs his head, hands in pockets, considering. He turns to Castiel again. "Right. In the back you get, then."

Castiel blinks.

"Well, I'm guessing you can't just click your heels and there's-no-place-like-home your ass to Bobby's, so you'd better get in the car," Dean points out, holding Castiel's elbow to haul him clumsily off the hood.

"I don't have any magic shoes," Castiel replies, a frown creasing lines between his eyebrows.

Dean stops dead, staring in disbelief. "The Wizard of Oz?" he asks incredulously. "Of all the awesome references I make, you get The Wizard of Oz?"

Castiel tilts his head slightly like always, pigeon on a phone-line. "Sam showed me," he replies. "I liked the Munchkins."

"Sammy?" Dean growls. For God's sake. It's like his brother is determined to undermine Dean's masculinity – or, more accurately, his attempts to turn Castiel into a real human being. A dude human being – not some fluffy, Munchkin-loving musical buff. However, very conveniently, Sam's already in the passenger seat, tucked away safely where he knows that Dean won't be able to attack in case he gets blood on his beloved upholstery. He appears to be sleeping innocently. Dean huffs. "Come on," he grunts at Castiel. "Can you walk okay?"

Castiel gingerly tries out his legs. He stumbles a little, but makes it to the backseat without hurting himself. Dean feels like a grumpy mom fussing over him with his seatbelt and do his ribs hurt and is he comfortable – but Castiel is already burrowing down into the leather like a tired toddler.

Dean swings into the front seat, slamming the door loudly so that the whole car shakes. Sam remains kindly oblivious, except for a loud, obnoxious snore that ruffles his girly fringe. Jesus. No way Sam would really sleep through that with no reaction.

"The Wizard of Oz? Really?" Dean demands.

"I like the Munchkins," Castiel repeats tiredly from the back.

Sam's lips twitch like he might laugh but he doesn't give himself away. Whatever. Dean lets him continue his exaggerated snores.

No-one snores like Castiel though. At first it's hilarious and just a tiny bit adorable but after a drive made two hours longer than it should have been by the snow on the roads, Dean is ready to stuff a sweaty sock into the angel's mouth to make him shut up. Sam even agrees to turning up Blue Öyster Cult to maximum volume in the hopes that the music would either wake him up or drown him out, but to no avail.

They climb out of the car at Bobby's, complaining unanimously.

"I thought angels couldn't sleep," Dean grumbles.

"I thoughts that they were supposed to be peaceful and quiet," Sam adds.

"Yeah – and sound pretty or something." Dean snorts. "Not like the Apocalypse was starting all over again."

The front door swings open before they reach it.

Bobby already looks cranky and they haven't even said a word to him. "What're you two griping about?" he asked sourly.

"Cas snoring," Sam explained.

"Cas sleeps?"

"He does now. Loudly, too." Dean rolled his eyes and pushed into the house. It was getting cold outside and he wanted a sandwich. "We left him in the car to get it all out of his system."

Sam looks like he might shrug off his jacket but instead zips it up. It doesn't seem like Bobby's ever heard of heating but the fireplace in the library is roaring comfortably so they all trek in there, leaving cold dirt footprints behind them. Every surface is piled high with books in dusty haphazard stacks, but it's the one already open on the coffee table that they all squeeze around.

"So I gotta couple theories," Bobby says, flipping through several pages that have been marked with curling stickers. "Number one - the men in black aren't happy with him," Bobby suggests, "in which case there ain't nothing we can do."

"No," comes a familiar, gravelly voice from behind them. Surprised, Dean turns to see Cas walking towards them, his movements stiff with a discomfort that's he tries to conceal. His face is fresh and dewy from sleep, his hair sticking up like dishevelled hedgehog spines. "It isn't the angels."

He walks slowly, fighting for breath, and even talking seems to take it out of him. "If they were displeased with me," he says quietly, "they would either take me back to Heaven to be punished or they would banish me completely." He settles beside Dean, side-by-side with arms brushing comfortably. "What is option two?"

"Humbling Spell." Bobby spins the book for them to see. "There's only a couple of mentions of it I could find but it sounds the most likely from what you described of his behaviour when you were driving over." He points at a passage in the book and the drawing above: a feral, blood-splattered young man clinging to a pile of caricature bodies. "Someone thinks that their victim is too superior – they get turned into an animal. Personality-wise, of course. They become wild, violent and usually gank a couple of people before they run out of energy. Fizzle out. Then they die."

Dean frowns. "That doesn't sound like Cas."

"Well, that's the thing. There's no record of it ever having been done on an angel," Bobby tells them. "Says here that the victims constantly describe themselves as feeling animal or wild." He raises his eyebrows pointedly. "Cas keeps saying he feels human, doesn't he?"

All eyes turn to Castiel. He shifts awkwardly. "I still have my wings," he reminds them.

"Your body doesn't change. Just your mind. You get the worst of animal nature – the brutal bits." Bobby shrugs. "Maybe he's gettin' the worst of humanity. The weakness, the tiredness, the pain."

Dean grins at Castiel. "Hey it's not that bad," he jokes. "Sense of humour... sex... lots of burgers." He throws him a saucy wink.

"How do we fix it?" Sam interrupts, giving Dean his best bitch-face.

"No idea," Bobby says brusquely. "Far as I can tell, most people put 'em down or just wait for them to burn out."

Dean doesn't say anything aloud but in his opinion it's the worst plan ever. Just wait for Castiel to go animal-crazy, tear into a couple of innocents and then give up the will to live – or whatever the human equivalent is? He still has a weird protective instinct from seeing so Castiel bruised and broken sheltered in his gut. An instinct that makes him stand close and listen to the rise and fall of Castiel's breath to see if his ribs still hurt. The idea of letting Castiel just go all Hannibal Lecter is more than frustrating, it's offensive. Like they'd ever let that happen to Cas.

Sam leans over the book, skim-reading the whole page in ten seconds flat because he's just a dork like that. "If we find out how the Humbling Spell is cast, we could go back to the concrete cabin and look for signs that it was done on Cas," he says. His voice is distorted by his proximity to the book; Dean is worried as ever that one day Sam'll just come out as a proper bibliophile and bring on the weird papery orgies.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean says absently. "You get to work on that and I'll go make myself a sandwich." He dodges the leg that Sam deliberately sticks out to trip him up and heads into the kitchen.

The house is cold but familiar and, possibility of Castiel turning cannibal aside, Dean feels content that things are under control. Sammy's safe and searching for a way to fix him, there are no demons after them, and there's actual bacon in Bobby's fridge. For once everything seems okay, he thinks, satisfied. This'll all be cleared up by the end of the week and maybe they can have a barbeque.


	2. Chapter 2

"So what exactly are we looking for again?" Dean asks as they patrol through the woods around the concrete cabin where Castiel lost his mojo. A thin layer of snow crunches underfoot and the whole place is eerily silent. No birds. No deer tiptoeing cautiously through the trees.

"Burnt rabbit bones," Sam answers distractedly, brushing some snow off a large rock. "Elder branches... human teeth..." He consults a list in his pocket, reeling off a number of other complicated and gross ingredients needed for the making of a Humbling Spell.

"I don't get it, man," Dean complained. "Are we even sure that whoever cast it had to be near Cas at the time?"

"I'd assume so since they need his blood," Sam replies. "Unless they've been following us for a while and used blood from some fight we got in a while ago."

"This whole thing is so gross. Have I ever mentioned I hate witches?"

"Yeah – several times."

Sam heads off into the tree-line to look for any hints of spellwork. Dean surveys the frigid landscape; the coldest winter in twenty years hangs little icicles from every branch and leaf like sharp waiting teeth. Castiel has gone into the cabin where they fought the shifter, feeling around for his grace.

Dean tries to remember the last time he felt like everything was this easy. It's just a feeling, of course - he knows it's not and he knows it's another case of dashing in to save the innocent in the nick of time... and the fact that it's Castiel's neck on the block for this round doesn't help either. It's hard to remember that Castiel's allegedly gonna go feral and die foaming at mouth when he's so small and dorky-looking at the moment, though.

"Dean! Over here!" Sam's voice comes over from around the corner of the cabin. "I've found something."

Dean yells back that he'll be right over and heads after Sam, tripping over roots and hidden animal burrows. Sam is kneeling, pushing at the snow until it forms tiny fluffy snowdrifts banked up around a load of gross mouldy objects in the dirt. Rabbit bones. Human teeth. The whole shebang. It's all arranged in a perfect circle and looked pretty legit, but Sam is frowning.

"These bones haven't been charred all the way through," Sam muses. He taps one with a long, girly fingernail, "and this old coin isn't real silver."

"So?" Dean squats next to him, squinting at the array of creepy objects on the ground. "You think someone's trying to make it look like they did a Humbling Spell?"

"I don't know, man," Sam says. "This is pretty old magic... I can't imagine why someone would go to so much trouble to set this up. Maybe they just half-assed it. That would explain why Cas still has his wings and everything, I guess. Where'd he go anyway?" Sam asks, standing up and dusting his hands on his jeans.

"Searching for his mojo." Dean bends and flicks at the bones, scattering them in all different directions like cat-eye marbles. "He seems to think that his grace is gonna be plastered all over the walls or something."

"We should talk to him about this," says Sam. "It doesn't make any sense how much this ritual sucked... maybe he has an idea."

He scans the area for EMF but comes back with only the faintest beeping from a tree that a werewolf probably peed on in the 1920s, once, as an after-thought. With a shrug, he shoves the device back into his pocket and slopes off towards the cabin.

Dean watches Sam walk away, brown coat, long legs. And Dean thinks of Castiel, with his complete inability to make a tie end up right-side-out. He stands quickly and stomps out the circle of bones and old dove-blood, and thinks maybe, spell or otherwise, it's only natural to decay.

When Dean gets to the mildew-rotting door into the cabin, Sam is hovering outside awkwardly. He says, by way of explanation, that Castiel still hasn't come out yet. He looks nervous but then again, he always did around angels. Sammy has always had that fangirling faith in religion and sometimes he still gets twitchy and devout. Dean rolls his eyes and pushes on the door.

"Wait!" Sam interrupts, grabbing his shoulder to haul him back from the door. "Cas is still in there. Just. He might be... you know. Praying or something."

"So?" The look Dean gives him is two parts man up Sammy and one part why do I even keep you around anymore. He shoves through the door like he hasn't got time for door-handles and clicks a flashlight on to glance around the empty corridor. "The dude prays too much if you ask me. He's gonna give himself an aneurysm."

Throwing the beam of the flashlight around, Dean follows the familiar path back into the main room. It's weird though - just two days ago it was all strewn with blood, bone and squishy bits of previous shifter forms. Now it's squeaky clean, not a hint of shifter about the place. It makes Dean a little nervous – shifters don't clean up after themselves and he can't imagine why anyone else would tidy up an abandoned cabin this deep in the woods.

Then into the main space. It's big, better lit today, with pale golden light seeping through the crooked roof-tiles as well through the boarded windows. Dean spots Castiel silently facing the wall. His shoulders drop a little, relieved – there's nothing bad here, nothing trying to kill us, Cas is fine – and he calls out, "You know, praying don't make it so, Cas—"

He falls quiet, realising that he's being a dick and that Castiel is not reacting.

"Cas?" Dean moves warily towards him, one hand tightening on the flashlight and the other drifting to the sawn-off shotgun permanently tucked into his waistband. "You okay?"

Very slowly, Castiel turns his chin a little over to one side, recognising Dean's presence, but doesn't speak. In that gesture his face is still hidden but for the sharp line of his jaw and jut of his battered nose. There is no flash of blue eyes to let him know that everything's going to be okay.

Dean shuffles a little closer, not sure what to do. He finds himself standing behind Castiel, just as awkward as Sam was at the door. He almost wishes he'd pansied out and stayed outside too. He doesn't say anything; he waits for Castiel.

Finally: "There's nothing here." There's a raw, defeated note to the gravel in Castiel's voice.

Instinctively Dean wants to reach out to Castiel, just for a hand on his arm, but he forces himself to keep still. He clears his throat. "Well, you've lost your powers before, haven't you?" he points out. "They came back last time. Give it a couple days and you'll be torching Las Vegas." He gives a little laugh. "Nothing like smiting a sinful city to get your angel boner back, right?"

"This is different." Castiel turns and the sheer depth of the emptiness in his eyes scares Dean. "I could feel it then. I could feel that my Grace was locked away where I couldn't access it, but I could still feel it. I knew that it was there. I..." His gaze drops to the floor. "I can't feel anything." He won't look at Dean but his words speed up, tripping over his syllables in his haste to get them out. "This is worse than falling. Falling is - just - when you fall, you forget. You lose your wings, your grace, all that makes you good and pure and holy – you become human and that's it. Over. But... but this is different. I still have my wings but I can't use them. It's as though God and the angels – the whole Heavenly Host – are gone, completely gone, and my grace with them. Dean, it's as though—"

"Whoa, calm down," Dean interrupts, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Seriously. Stop talking. You're making my head hurt."

Castiel lifts his head so that his puffy bruised eyes can meet Dean's. He is quiet, trusting and desperate under Dean's hands, needing direction. That primal fear is still there but it's fading with every second that Dean stares him down. Dean won't break eye contact, almost daring him to freak out again. Castiel breathes slow, blinks slow. He swallows.

"Don't worry, Cas," Dean says firmly. "We'll sort this out."

"What if it's not a spell?" Castiel speaks quietly, like he's ashamed of all the concerns rushing through him. He tries to avoid Dean's eyes, his forehead creasing as if by staring hard enough at the floor, he could disappear into it. "What if my powers never come back? What if something really has happened to the Heavenly Host?"

Dean twists his head to catch Castiel's gaze, dragging his eyes back up. They trust each other, always have - even back when Castiel was less of a friend and more of a douchebag – and Dean uses that now. "Dude, seriously," he says firmly. "Is being human really the worst thing that can happen?"

Castiel stares at him as though he's asked a very stupid question and Dean thinks maybe he has. Dean can't imagine Cas any other way but this: small, narrow, all hair and stubble and big blue eyes. He forgets often that they're not the same species, that Castiel is something bigger and more glorious than he could ever imagine.

Or – he was.

Castiel rolls his shoulders, looking self-conscious, and Dean hears the faint rush and whisper of wings that he usually associates with angels coming and going, but when he looks up, his particular angel is still there. He's not sure whether this knowledge relieves him or just makes him sad. Castiel certainly looks like a kicked dog.

"I feel abandoned."

"Of course you do," Dean says, trying to keep a light tone. He claps a hand on Castiel's shoulder, for a second wondering if he'll feel feathers under his fingers, if those wings will finally become tangible. He raps a knuckle gently on the side of Castiel's head, careful to avoid the swelling. "You've probably got a big empty hole now in that thick head of yours where all time and space used to be... anyway, I guess we'll be using Google more."

As Dean slips his arm reassuringly around Castiel's shoulders, he turns his head to frown into Dean's face. "I don't understand."

"...Never mind." Dean tugs him towards the door. "Come on. Sam and I got stuff to tell you and I am starving."

When they push out through the heavy door, Sam is no longer hovering awkwardly. He's leaning against the car in the distance, smiling down at his cell phone. With the shelter of the cabin behind them, a stiff breeze has whipped up that tears into them like hungry dogs. Dean stiffens and flips up his collar, hunkering down into the neck of his jacket for warmth. Castiel flinches so wildly that Dean immediately assumes he's done something to hurt himself; however, when pressed, Castiel merely mutters that he's a little cold. Dean isn't sure if the dark flush high on the ridge of his cheekbones is risen from the chill or from embarrassment.

"Ugh, I keep forgetting you can't physically look after yourself." Dean rolls his eyes. "Hurry up getting in the car and we can turn up the heat." He looks over Castiel's attire, though he doesn't really need to... he's seen this stupid outfit so many times, miraculously made whole no matter the angelic crap that Castiel puts it through. The pants are a little too short, the shirt only cotton, the suit jacket not much better, and Dean's pretty sure that the trenchcoat offers nothing except something awesome and dramatic to billow around his legs like Batman when he walks. "You need warmer clothes than your Sunday suit and a dirty coat. You're gonna end up getting sick and I'll tell you now that I will not be spoon-feeding you chicken broth."

Castiel blinks. "These are the only clothes of Jimmy's I brought from his house. I assumed I would not need any more."

Dean thinks he might push Castiel for being such a dork but he looks so small and red-faced with cold that it would be mean. Anyway, with all his new human weaknesses, it'd probably be revealed that Jimmy Novak's body was inordinately clumsy and he'd fall down. Instead as they cross the snow to the Impala, Dean laughs. "What, do you think that a big sewing machine in the sky makes all the clothes for skinny little angels? Clothes come from stores, Cas. You can't just magic them on. You gotta buy them like everyone else."

Castiel's lower lip juts out defiantly. It transforms his battered face from neglected celestial being to lost puppy but Castiel sulks like nothing else Dean's ever seen.

"Hey Cas," Sam says, not looking up from his phone. He's got a dumb smirk. "You alright?"

"Yes. Dean was just telling me that I need to get new clothes as these are not suitable," Castiel says in such a matter-of-fact way that his words have a thousand different implications. Sam catches all of them and looks up now, lifting one eyebrow.

"He's cold," Dean says defensively.

Sam snorts. "Okay, whatever." He struggles to compose his face and then turns his attention back to Castiel. "If you hop in the car, it's probably warmer."

"Who are you texting?" Dean asks.

"Oh. Well, no-one – it doesn't matter - but I just finished texting Bobby a second ago and he says that the Humbling Spell only works if the ritual is cast in its entirety."

Castiel doesn't move to get inside the Impala. Instead he listens intently to the information being given and, not understanding, looks to Dean for clarification.

"We found all the necessities for the Humbling Spell in the forest round the back of the cabin," Sam explains, "but it wasn't done right. The bones weren't burnt properly, the coins weren't real silver, the wood didn't look like it was from an elder tree... it couldn't possibly have worked."

"It could be something that wants us to believe it was a Humbling Spell," Castiel says.

"Yeah, that's what we thought," Dean agreed. "Do you have any ideas – what or why or how?"

Castiel hasn't even opened his mouth before Sam butts in.

"Before any of that, can we please get out of the cold?" Sam demands, flipping his phone shut. "I'm freezing and I'm hungry and personally I think that we would be able to think about this a lot better in a nice warm diner with hot drinks and dinner."

"I agree with Sam," Castiel says and something about him – about the way that he's siding with Sam, picking teams like they're all family now, not just the Chosen One and the Boy With The Demon Blood; the way that he's speaking of getting coffee and fast-food with an expression so serious as to suggest that they were discussing capital punishment; the way that in spite of his solemnity, the cold has brought up his nose and cheeks bright red – causes in Dean a surge of warm pride.

"Sure," he says, smiling. "Let's go get dinner."

  
People keep giving them weird looks and Dean doesn't entirely blame them. Castiel has never exactly mastered the art of keeping his voice down, not realising that loudly discussing magic spells and monsters is not the social norm, and in addition to that he's wriggling violently in his chair.

"Will you just stop that?" Dean snaps. "You look like you've got fleas."

Castiel twists his body at an awkward angle, one arm tight against his side with the other jabbing elbow-out into the diner aisle. "I apologise," he says and becomes still in that position. He still looks pretty weird but Dean decides that it might just be the most normal he can look.

"I think that until we work out what else could be doing all this, it'd be best if we just continue treating it as a Humbling Spell," Sam says, scrolling through pages on his laptop. "If it's gonna be fatal, it's best if we keep focusing on finding out how to stop it while we look into what else it could be. I was doing some reading, though-"

"Whoa, Sammy," Dean gasps in mock-horror. "You – reading? God, you'd better slow down or soon you might be doing research or something."

Sam silences him with a disapproving face before continuing. "Anyway. So I was reading one of Bobby's old books yesterday, and it said that some really powerful witches – and I mean really powerful, like, the very first witches, the Old Ones, as opposed to your average middle-class Satan enthusiast – see, they prefer taking on the appearance of beautiful and stereotypically vulnerable-looking women – but they can take on the appearances of other creatures."

Dean stares without seeing as the pieces click into place in his head. "The shifter," he says. "When the shifter was attacking Cas, it knew a hell of a lot more about the way angels work than your basic ten-dollar monster should have... and just now, all that gross flesh and stuff was gone. Just disappeared – like it was never real in the first place."

Sam nods eagerly. "What if the shifter wasn't really a shifter?" he pushes. "What if it was the witch? It could have even used that fight as an opportunity to get some of our hair or blood or whatever it needed for its spells."

Dean fights back a shudder. Witches are just so unhygienic. He pulls a face like he's going to vomit and says, "So, what – you think it led us to the cabin to set up all its fancy-ass witchcraft and then it's been following us since?"

"Or something." Sam shrugs. "It makes a lot more sense than everything else we've thought of."

"Great." Dean sinks back against the plush of his seat, pulling a face. "Now all we need is a goddamn antidote before Cas keels over dead. No problem."

An idea flashes across Castiel's face and he leans forwards across the grubby table to get Sam and Dean's attention. "I may need true love's kiss," he says. His low voice is so dour that for a second Dean doesn't realise the insanity of what's just been said. Then it hits him.

"What?"

Castiel nods. "I believe that the cartoon Beauty and the Beast was loosely based on witchcraft lore – such as the Humbling Spell - in which case, there may be some truth in the Disney adaptation of the spell's cure."

Dean's eyebrows lift so high his whole face feels like it's twisted out of proportion. "You've seen Beauty and the Beast?" he says incredulously. Then, realisation strikes him and he swings to face Sam, his jaw tightening. "Sammy, I swear to God—"

"It was on TV!" Sam justifies, lifting his hands in surrender. "I tried to change the channel but he liked it."

Dean drops his head into his hands, deeply ashamed of everyone around him. "I don't know which of you is gayer," he mutters and, looking up to point accusatorily at Castiel, adds, "and he's borrowing someone else's junk!"

Castiel tips his head, eyes curious.

"You should hear him singing Be Our Guest," Sam says, stifling a giggle. "He makes it sound like a British choirboy hymn."

Dean laughs so hard he rocks back into the damaged leather of the booth seat. "Now that I've got to h—"

"Can we get back to my condition?" Castiel asks and there's a downwards twist to his mouth that says he doesn't like being made fun of.

"Do you sing the high-pitched bit with the spoons?" Dean pushes, grinning.

"And you said that I was gay," Sam says incredulously. "I don't have the damn song memorised by which cutlery sings what—"

"Come on, everyone knows that bit – it's like the most famous bit of the film—"

"I thought you swore you'd never seen it—"

Castiel's scowling now. "What I meant to say," he interrupts, his voice lower than usual and sounding pissy, "is that there may be some accuracy to the film. You seal a crossroads' demon deal with a kiss and there may be something similar involved with the Humbling Spell."

"Sure thing, Princess," Dean chuckles. "Let me just get your glass shoes and we can go back to Bobby's in a pumpkin."

"I don't understand those references; they are not from Beauty and the Beast. My footwear is probably irrelevant – and in this scenario, I think I am the Beast rather than the Beauty."

Sam snorts his soda up his nose and for a second Dean is genuinely worried that he's going to piss his pants laughing.

"I am not a Princess!" Castiel says irritably – and loudly – just as the waitress sidles up to their table with menus. She's tall, long-limbed, dark-skinned and busty – exactly Dean's type, and he's willing to bet a couple dollars that she could use a good time after the stressful afternoon shift is over.

The bewildered look she gives Castiel is priceless, especially since he's still bent at all weird angles like there's something really wrong with his spine. She shakes herself a little, straightens her face and hands over the menus. "Good afternoon," she says, clicking her pen a couple times. "Do you want to eat?"

"No," Castiel says, shifting in his seat awkwardly, and this for some reason sets him off wiggling again to get comfortable.

"He'll have a cheeseburger," Dean says over him, throwing Castiel a stern look. If the stupid son of a bitch won't remember that he's essentially human and therefore has to eat, then it looks like Dean will have to trail around after him, making sure he doesn't accidentally kill himself through his own stupidity. "I'll have the same – with bacon, extra cheese and thick-cut fries. Sammy?"

Sam flicks through the menu, frowning down at the first page where of course all the salads will be located. Dean rolls his eyes at the waitress with a charming smile, all ugh, little brothers, what can you do? She's a little old for him, maybe, but she's got an awesome rack, those mysterious hooded eyes that he's a sucker for, and a mouth that he can tell would suck like a Dyson. Still, the moment is almost always ruined by Castiel's awkwardness, and, as ever, he delivers.

"Dean," he says, clearly seeing the lack of Dean and Sam's laughter as his opportunity to get his point across, "perhaps the witch who cast the spell is indeed the Princess in this case, and I would have to kiss her in order to make – or break – whatever she has cast over me in order to drain my powers."

Flashing Castiel a look that tells him under no uncertainties to shut up or die doesn't seem to work and as the idiot keeps talking about witchcraft and princesses and beasts, Dean can see that flirty glitter growing smaller in the waitress' eyes. Sam, thankfully, hurries up and chooses a salad so that she can leave.

"For God's sake, Cas," Dean grumbles once she's gone. "You are the biggest cockblock I have ever met."

Castiel lifts his head to stare at Dean, his eyes so wide and puzzled that Dean can't even stand to look at him. He doesn't need any of that puppy-dog bullcrap at the moment.

The burgers and salad arrive surprisingly fast and Dean is disappointed, but not surprised, to see that there is no phone number scrawled on the napkin he gets.

Despite having thought that he wasn't hungry, Castiel stuffs his food down faster than anyone. "At the same time," he mumbles through his burger, seemingly getting more cheese and ketchup on his face than in his mouth, "I believe that I am not the target... I believe that you are the rmnffgf tahffgffs."

"I'm sorry?" Sam says.

Castiel tries to speak again around his food. "The real targets. I think that this whole thing is aimed at you. They want you to believe that I am under a Humbling Spell – or they want you to believe that they want you to believe that I am under a Humbling Spell. They could be bluffing numerous times to get you where they want."

Sam and Dean glance at each other.

Sam speaks first. "Okay, so it's trying to mess with our heads," he says in that slow, Stanford-bred thinking-voice as he twirls some weird squishy cheese around his fork. "Why? What would do that?"

"I dunno – to confuse us?" Dean says, feeling a little like he's stating the obvious.

"You," Sam corrects. "Whatever they're doing, it's aimed at you." He seems to feel the sceptical stare on him and looks up from his salad to meet Dean's eyes. "Cas is right that he's not the target... see, whenever we're up on a case, the first thing we do is figure out what we're up against. They're sending mixed signals, messing with us on purpose. Plus, they've done this spell – or whatever it is – to Cas. I can only think of two reasons they'd do that: to cut him off as a resource or to use him as some kind of bait. But if they were making him powerless to cut off resources, we would have been cut off from Bobby too... but we haven't. Maybe they're using Cas because they know you like him."

Dean sets his burger down. "You say that like you don't," he says and his tone somehow comes out more accusatory than he intended.

Sam shrugs. He won't make eye contact and keeps twirling his salad with his fork. "Well, you know. Not as much. Profound bond and everything."

Castiel has an expression that Dean thinks is meant to look reassuring but he looks a little constipated. "Sam, you have no reason to feel threatened by mine and Dean's relationship," he says calmly – and, oh, just their luck-

"Can I get you boys anything else?" the waitress asks, hovering over their table with her clicky-pen and notepad. Her eyebrows had lifted when she heard Castiel speak but she didn't seem bothered by it anymore. The seductive sparkle in her eyes was certainly gone, replaced instead by that slightly sad it's-a-shame-that-you're-gay smile that he's seen on women before, whenever Sam was being particularly clingy.

"Well, sure," Dean drawls, propping his elbows on the table and leaning towards her with an easy grin – he hears Castiel loudly say no thank you, ever contradictory, from the other side of the table, but ignores him. "See, we're new in town and these guys don't know a map from a picture-book... I was just wondering if a pretty girl like you could spare the time to show me round the town." He fixes his most panty-blowing smouldering gaze on her. "What time do you get off?"

Works like a charm. She's interested again, flicking back a long dark curl and folding her arms across her chest so that her pinstriped shirt strains at the buttons. Dean can see red lace peeping through the little gaps her shirt makes and—

"Dean, you can't do that," Castiel interrupts his train of thought. He's got his menacing, rebellious face on and Dean realises that trying to sleep with this waitress is a lost cause. "We have to go find out what's wrong with me."

And she's gone, expression calculatedly blank. The grin slides slowly off Dean's face. "On the other hand, maybe not," he says darkly, glaring at Castiel. "Just the bill."

She nods, and heads back to the kitchen with a hip-swing that could put an eye out.

Dean turns slowly to stare Castiel down. He considers telling him off, telling him yet another little anecdote about how society works, telling how to recognise the signs of when a dude really, really wants to get laid. He considers telling Castiel a lot of things. But the stupid son of a bitch is just staring straight back at him, blue eyes unflinching, and Dean can't be bothered.

The rest of the meal passes awkwardly, punctuated only by the sound of Castiel chewing loudly plus the occasional tidbit of information from Sam who is still scrolling endlessly on his laptop. Once finished, Dean unfolds two tens from his wad of cheated cash and dumps it in the waitress' hand with no more than a wink before he stalks off. Sam leaves a tip, thanking her because he's always the Good Boy Favourite; Castiel follows behind Dean in silence, seemingly content with looking up at the sky rather than engaging in conversation.

Dean swings into the driver's seat and is just about to slam the door when he notices Castiel standing, frozen and awkward, by the back door. Dean lets one leg dangle out of the car and twists to face Castiel, O Mighty Defier of Easy Lays. "What?" he grunts. "Get in."

Castiel shifts from one foot to the other. "I don't think that I will fit in the car."

Dean narrows his eyes in disbelief. "Come again?"

"I said that I do not think I'll—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time," Dean cuts in. "Why the hell not?"

By this point Sam is sidling up, glued to his cell phone again. He stands still and oblivious for a moment, focused on whoever he's texting, and then after a few seconds, looks up. "What's up?" he asks, noticing the tension.

"Since we entered the diner, I have been having increasing difficulty folding my wings," Castiel admits. There's a stark contrast between the embarrassed flush across his nose and cheekbones, and the defiant way he tips his chin up. "I believe it to be a side-effect of the spell."

"Well, that's just great," Dean says grumpily, though he's at least somewhat glad that now he knows why Castiel was jiggling about in the diner like he had a serious problem. "Any more sunshine you wanna spread, Buttercup?"

Sam ignores him. "How big are they?" he asks, studying the backseat of the Impala and Castiel's narrow frame in turn. "Hang on." He clicks a few final buttons on his phone and then slides it back into his pocket. "Can you not just fold them around in front of you, if not behind? It's only a couple hours to Bobby's house."

Castiel whips to stare from one brother to the other, distraught. It's as though Sam suggested that they saw off his wings and attach them to the front and back of the car like an extra-feathery edition of Pimp My Ride.

"Well, you can't fly so unless you wanna walk to Bobby's – or have us strap you to the roof like Priscilla Queen of the freaking Desert – I suggest you get to squishing yourself up like angelic playdough," Dean says sarcastically. He's trying to be mean to Castiel since he's still pissed off that his chances with the waitress were all shot to hell, but it's really hard to be a dick when Castiel looks so pathetic - especially when he makes a small humming noise of displeasure but agrees to try.

Sam and Dean can't help; they've been told enough times about how their senses are too dull to see or touch angel wings. They get in the front seat and turn to watch Castiel uncomfortably stuffing himself into the backseat. It would almost be funny, did he not look so miserable about the whole thing.

It takes at least fifteen minutes; a grand total of twelve cars get out of the parking lot before they do, and all of them are customers who entered the diner after they did. Dean can see staff peering out of windows in the diner, wondering why three dudes would get into a parked car and stay there, perfectly motionless, for a long time. It's certainly not helping anyone think they're not gay, that's one thing. The car is leaning randomly from side to side as Castiel shuffles around. At one point he's sitting on the floor behind Sam's seat; at another time his ass is pressed against the window with his forehead forced into the back head-rest. These funny little grunts and gasps are coming from the back and were Dean not fully aware of what was going on, he'd probably assume that the angel had company.

As it is, Castiel's just writhing about to get comfy like a kid with a severe case of ADHD and finally... finally he does. His trenchcoat's all caught up, the ends draped over one shoulder, the belt over his other arm; one leg is cramped in behind Dean, the other stretched along the length of the Impala's seat. His arms dangle awkwardly between his knees. He looks like an abused chimpanzee – because it wasn't bad enough to be downgraded to human.

"Right. We good to go?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder at what could easily be interpreted as a hostage situation.

Castiel answers him with a tragic face but nods all the same.

The journey is a long one. They bat around ideas for what monster slash creature slash asshole could be messing with them and with Castiel like this, but it gets old after a while. They turn to funny stories and jokes... none of which Castiel get. Castiel also refuses to sing Be Our Guest – or any other song, for that matter. Not even Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead. Not even when Sam mimics the Munchkin voices for him to join in. That kind of sucks.

However, Castiel does willingly hum along to Dean's tuneless singing when he jams a Led Zeppelin tape in. Dean doesn't even know if Cas realises it or if it's just a celestial choirboy thing he's got going on, but he's got them harmonising.


	3. Chapter 3

At six A.M on the twelfth of November, it starts to snow in Sioux Falls.

It breathes against the windows with a patter like a birds' wings while Dean is shovelling down cereal at the breakfast table, arguing lore and theories with Sam and Castiel; by lunch-time it's pounding, beating out a violent tattoo against the siding, and if they can see out through, there's not much to see except more white and a darkening sky like thunderstorms or apocalypse. It doesn't look as though it will ease up any time soon either.

It's nothing unusual this time of year in this part of the world; weather channels are a little bemused by the sudden appearance of blizzards over and around South Dakota with no real hint as to the extreme weather beforehand, but it's nothing they can't manage.

There's nothing wrong with a little extra quality time with Bobby, anyway. They stoke the fire up to crackling with fat, sap-scarred logs; they sit together, shoulders pressed close for warmth, and toss ideas back and forth. Djinn, somneda, Trickster, demon – they bat theories around for hours and come up empty-handed. Bobby keeps his books in stacks nearby, within arm's reach for disproving or fact-checking; he keeps beer lined up to attention in a cupboard to the left of the fridge.

"Screw this," Dean says, climbing awkwardly from the slump of the couch. "I'm taking a break."

He yanks his jacket tighter around him and heads for the empty kitchen, where his breath mists up like a haunting – except it's just really, really cold. He rests a hand lightly on the counter, looking out the window over the back of Singer Salvage wreckage heaps. There's that throbbing pulse behind his eyelids, the ache that knows before he does when shit's going to hit the fan. Any number of things could be bringing Castiel down, and they can't lay a finger concrete on any of them.

The beer is colder than he anticipated, colder than he needs in this temperature, but it helps all the same. Taking another pull, he heads across the kitchen for the back door, gazing out through the little square window. He watches the fall and twist of snow for a couple of seconds before he realises that there is someone behind him – and then, a split-second later, an icy hand rests briefly on his shoulder.

"What do you want?" Dean grunts.

Castiel's hand drops slowly from Dean, as though he's unsure whether he's doing the right thing. "You seem troubled."

His voice, still harsh as ever, is hesitant and that settles rock-hard certainty in Dean's gut that under no conditions will he be turning around to greet the stupid son of a bitch. He knows the expression that'll be there waiting for him if he does - the way Castiel's eyebrows will pull together, crease up in the middle and suggest questions that he'll feel compelled to answer. The way those ageless, tired eyes, even when they're merely slits in the puffy, purple mess that his face is at the moment, will be so clear and straight-forward that they'll make him want to say everything. Dean hates it.

Instead of risking all that, Dean swills his beer, watching the fizzy tidemarks it makes on the sides of the bottle, and waits for Castiel to say something else.

There's silence for longer than Dean expects. After a couple of seconds, Dean does turn. It's unlike Castiel to leave long, awkward silences unless there's intense eye contact involved. Cas does love himself some intense eye contact...

-but Castiel isn't looking at him. He's staring down at the floor with the most peculiar look on his face. There's confusion and fright echoing far back in his eyes like it's something primal he's never experienced before. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He's fighting something back.

"Cas, what's up?" Dean asks, slightly concerned now.

The worry in Dean's voice makes Bobby and Sam look up in the other room. They're watching carefully. Sam is tensed in his seat, ready to spring up to help where he can, if need be. Bobby's eyes are narrowed.

"I think there's something wrong with my head." Castiel's words are calm, collected but the expression through the heavy bruising on his face makes it clear how deeply unsettled he is.

"Wrong with your head?" Dean echoes. "Wrong how? What do you mean?"

Castiel's nose wrinkles up; his eyes blur together. Through all his stilted attempts at speech, his expression changes drastically like the flip of a switch between pain and fear. The last thing that can be seen there is blind panic as he blurts out: "It feels strange – I don't know what's – Dean—"

He sneezes.

Dean stares at him silently. After a few seconds, Castiel looks up. His face is composed this time with all its usual solemnity. "The sensation is gone now," he says mildly.

Sam bursts out laughing.

Castiel twists to throw Sam a stony glare but doesn't quite make it. The movement jars his ribs and he makes a low, guttural sound. He avoids Dean's eyes for a moment and when he meets his gaze again, his eyes are slightly watery. His jaw is stoic, determined not to show that it hurts. Dean feels sorry for him – he's unused to pain and unused to the idea of being careful with his body in case he hurts it further.

"Careful, Princess," Dean tells him, tipping his head sideways along with Castiel's signature head-tilt so that he can hold his eyes. "You've got a bust rib, remember? You're not ready for that kind of yoga." He then realises too late that before the whole sneezing escapade, he had been wanting to avoid looking Castiel in the eye. Now he's faced with the dreaded sympathetic face as a whole, which is so much worse than just the idea of separate components. He lets his eyes fall again, picking out details the length of Castiel's body – the stitching coming loose on the top suit button, the tag sticking out of his crooked tie, his untucked shirt - rather than look him in the eye again. "You want a beer?"

"Sure, Dean, I'd love one," Bobby calls crankily from the other room, where he is bent over a pile of books with Sam. "You know how great I think it is when you turn up here, go through my stuff and eat it all."

"Yeah – just a shame you can't resist my boyish charm," Dean calls back, throwing a grin and a saucy wink through to Bobby in the other room, who doesn't dignify him with a response, but just rolls his eyes and reaches for another book.

"No," Castiel replies gravely, quiet in the wake of Dean and Bobby's banter. "If I am mostly human now then I will have a poor tolerance to it."

Dean raises his eyebrows and lifts his bottle to eye-level. "You sure?" He wiggles it a little. "You can't handle one beer?"

Castiel stares back, unmoving and unresponsive except for the infinitesimal scrunch of the end of his nose, like beer is a concept that offends him.

Dean shrugs. "Suit yourself." He lifts it to lips, drinks, and for a moment he and Castiel stand in a hush in the kitchen, listening to the murmur of studious voices in the library and the rhythmic drumming of snow on the rooftop. Then Dean looks back at the door, at the cold white swirl through the small window – and then back at Castiel. Dean tips his head in the direction of the door. "Hey. You ever feel snow like a human?"

Castiel steps closer as Dean twists to the door and fumbles with the key. "Is it different?" he asks, trailing after him.

In the back of his mind, Dean notes that Castiel's still not wearing anything warmer than his silly trenchcoat so they can't stay outside for too long, especially since Castiel's probably coming down with something, if that sneeze is anything to go by.

The back door opens with a clatter, smacking heavily against the siding of the house as the winter wind catches it. Snow swirls in before it can be stopped. Dean and Castiel step outside quickly to stop the icy air from snatching the breath from the whole house, clicking the door quietly shut behind them. The clouds whirl dark and cumbersome, spilling snow in gusts and sheets that settles heavy on every surface, glinting.

They stand in silence for a moment, and only then does Dean turn to Castiel and answer his question. "You tell me."

Dean wishes he had a camera to capture the look on Castiel's face. He's gazing out across Singer Salvage-turned-Winter Wonderland with eyes that are almost too big for his face. The serious little pout that had become a permanent feature is gone, his mouth slightly open. His nose and cheeks are reddening again but he doesn't seem to care.

Castiel takes a very careful step forwards. He begins to emerge from the little canopy that protects them from the onslaught of snow but doesn't walk out into the perfect blanket of frost. Dean recognises the soft expression in his eyes – it's the same as the way he first looked at Dean... the way he sometimes still does. Like it's something sacred.

"It smells different," he finally says. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards faintly and the edges of his eyes soften into narrow laugh-lines. Jimmy Novak must have laughed a lot to get those; Castiel's expressions and emotions don't bring them out much anymore but this is pretty close. He lifts one hand so that it's exposed from the shelter of the canopy and his fingers are buffeted, harder than he expected. "It hurts," he adds, surprised. "I wouldn't have believed that snow could be painful."

Even though Dean tells himself that he's only out here with Castiel so that they don't have to talk about feelings, he feels himself cracking the shadow of a smile. A real smile. "Do you want to go play in it or something?" he teases. He flinches after hearing his own words, hearing the patronising mockery lacing them.

Castiel doesn't seem to notice any such spite to them, accidental or not. He looks around at Dean, his face so open and earnest that it's easy to forget he's a million years old. Another species. "Humans play in snow," he says. It comes out of his mouth like a question – why? How? Who with? Is it fun? He's too composed for any of that though; he tilts his head.

"Seriously?" Dean asks incredulously. He moves forward so he's next to Castiel, standing arm to arm. "Over two thousand years of humanity to look down on and you've never seen anyone play in snow?"

It takes a moment for Castiel to consider and process this. "I've seen it," he answers at last. "They make angels, lying on their backs."

"Hideously inaccurate, of course," Dean throws in, trying to keep a straight face. "No-one's eyes get burnt out."

Castiel peers sideways at Dean as though judging reactions before he lets a small smile turn his lips. "Yes," he agrees, still studying Dean's face carefully. "It's perhaps better that they have no idea."

Dean doesn't respond to that. He looks at the outlines of damaged cars and trucks become fuzzy as snow breaks up their shapes and contorts them all into ambiguous snowballs. He sees the way that the floodlight mounted on Bobby's roof, turned on prematurely since the weather is bringing night in early, catches the snowflakes bronze.

They stand in silence together for a few minutes, watching the snow fall. Dean can feel winter leeching the heat of their bodies away but still they remain; they're so close, sleeves brushing, that Dean can feel the warmth of Castiel's fingers less than an inch away, and so Dean knows he's okay. Remembering that he was supposed to be sharing, Dean offers the beer bottle to Castiel. They don't exchange words; somehow they've always been beyond that. They are both lost in thought – Castiel probably musing about his Father and creation and maybe a little homesick looking at the beauty of the snow, Dean just wondering if they can hang onto nice moments like this, between wraiths and demons and saving innocents.

They can't stay there long. The beer runs out and Castiel's starting to shiver. He tries to be subtle about it, pulling the front of his trenchcoat tight around him when he thinks Dean isn't paying attention, but of course Dean's always paying attention.

"Right," Dean says. He has to shuffle his feet a little to get them warm enough to move properly. "Back inside." He claps a hand on Castiel's shoulder as he turns, but Castiel doesn't follow. "Come on," he insists. He squeezes Castiel where his shoulders slope up to meet his neck. "You're gonna get cold out here."

"You go. I'll be there in a moment." Castiel doesn't make any movement to even look at him. "I just..." He tries to explain himself but trails off. Dean doesn't push it.

Dean lets himself back into the house. Just as he's closing the door behind him, he sees Castiel wander out slowly into the snow. Arms slightly raised from his sides like he's spreading his wings, head tipped up to look at the sky. In that position, with the snow swirling angrily around him, long coat and loose sleeves snagged by gusts like it could carry him off, he looks truly angelic. Dean feels like he's intruding and he shuts the door.

"How'd you lose him between the door and here?" Bobby asks sarcastically when Dean comes back into the library.

"With great difficulty." Dean winks, setting his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and throwing himself down onto the couch next to where Sam is sprawled. "How's it going?"

"Not great." Sam smacks Dean's foot away as he tries to prop it on the arm of the couch, in front of his face. "But we might have something – you know how we said that to pull all this Humbling Spell double-bluffing crap, it'd have to be old, powerful, smart... well, we were considering pagans. They'd certainly be able to do this."

"Alright." Dean leans forwards to examine the books that Bobby and Sam have laid out. "Which ones are we looking at then?"

Sam reads aloud passages from a book pertaining to Greek pagan gods and goddesses, including Nemesis, goddess of retribution, and Bobby is using a magnifying glass and an Estonian dictionary to translate an old leather-bound book about an old god who supposedly feasts on power.

They flick through flimsy pages, referencing and cross-referencing. Bobby gets up to put a new log on the fire. It turns out that the Estonian god transforms his victims into cockroaches after he drains their juice, and since Castiel hasn't got an exoskeleton yet, it seems like a dead-end. Sam goes to make some coffees to help warm them up. Dean is climbing over piles of books to get to his duffel bag, in search of a warmer sweater, when the banging of doors can be heard from across the house.

Dean looks over in the direction of the kitchen, brow knotting with confusion. Then Castiel comes in with this gentle, peaceful expression and Dean knows he's been praying. However, serene as he looks, snow is melting on his hair and clothes; he's dripping icy water onto Bobby's floorboards and trying to contain wild shivers as the melting snow trickles through his shirt, down the back of his neck.

"Dude," Dean exclaims, stopping in his tracks halfway to his duffel. "How the hell did you get so soaked?"

Castiel's fingers pinch the seams of his pants like he's holding himself together. "I was... communing."

"Communing?" Dean echoes. "Communing – Cas, it's been, like-" He glances over at the clock mounted above the fireplace. "Jesus Christ, Cas, it's been forty minutes. And you don't even have a proper coat!"

"My coat is adequate." Castiel's teeth are chattering.

"Jesus, it's like looking after a toddler," Dean mutters. He'd somehow forgotten that Castiel was more or less human now... as an angel, Castiel wanders off and disappears all the time; this would have been nothing to worry about. He feels sick to his stomach with guilt now. He imagines accidentally forgetting about Sam and leaving him out somewhere to get cold and wet. Admittedly, Sammy wouldn't be so dumb as to not remember to come back inside, but still.

Dean gets quickly to his feet to meet Castiel in the doorway. He swears under his breath when he sees how bad his idiotic, incompetent angel really is. Castiel's soaked and icy to the touch, his lips and fingers are beginning to go blue, and he's shivering so violently that he sways from side to side - but in spite of all this, he looks completely content.

"Dude. What part of 'come inside soon so you don't get sick' did you hear as 'stay out in the snow for the best part of an hour so you definitely turn hypothermic'?" Dean demands.

Castiel hears the irritation in Dean's voice and retreats back into the collar of his trenchcoat. The action sends a clump of snow sliding off the top of his head like a comedic hat and plopping gracelessly to the floor. He looks ashamedly up at Dean through his eyelashes, all frozen together in little clumps. "I lost track of time," he admits. He lifts his hands to inspect them, water trickling down his fingers in thin rivulets and beading at the tips, as though he's not sure what he should do with them, or even if they're his. As he does this, slushy melt-water splashes down, creating little puddles on the floor.

"Get him outta here!" Bobby says. "We're still trying to have a conversation here and he's getting water all on the floor."

Rolling his eyes, Dean grabs Castiel by the sleeve and hauls him out to the hallway. In an attempt to be helpful, Castiel tries to stick to the damp footprints that he already left in the way in here, which results in him walking sideways and slightly skew-legged like a kid trying not to step on the cracks. It's sort of endearing and totally fucking ridiculous in equal measure; Dean just blocks it out.

"Now stay still," Dean commands as he works to peel the sodden trenchcoat from Castiel's trembling shoulders. It's heavy with the weight of all the melted snow and Dean throws it carelessly into the corner of the hall. He loosens and slides off the backwards-facing blue tie, chucking that aside as well, but leaves the rest to Castiel. Dean's not going to strip all the clothes off a 'multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent', much less one dressed up in the body of a skinny salesman.

Dean grabs one of the bigger, less gross-looking towels from Bobby's bathroom and doubles back to the library to grab his duffel bag ("How's it going, Florence Nightingale?" – "Shut up, Sammy."). Castiel is still struggling with shirt buttons, like he's never had to use them before... and Dean realises he probably hasn't. Angels don't sleep, don't shower, don't have sex – there's no real reason or opportunity to take clothes off. Even yesterday, under the effect of being mojo-less and human, Castiel had just slumped and zonked out on Bobby's couch, fully dressed.

While Castiel tugs frustratedly at his cuffs and tries to get out of his clothes, his ineptitude magnified a hundred-fold by his violently-shaking fingers, Dean rummages through his duffel for some other stuff he can put back on afterwards.

"What did I tell you?" Dean tuts, shaking his head as he digs through his assortment of various clothes, some clean, some dirty. "If you die of pneumonia, no-one will ever take you seriously. Just saying. At least the other angels got ganked by something cool."

"I hardly think that going out into the snow-" Castiel interrupts himself by sneezing twice, although thankfully this time he knows what's happening and doesn't piss himself panicking about his brain exploding. "-will gank me, Dean."

"I wouldn't be too sure."

Dean fishes out an old long-sleeve shirt and his warmest, comfiest pair of jeans. Both smell okay so he balls them up with the towel – he's just about to throw them over to Castiel when he realises that not only has Castiel finally worked out how to shed the shirt, he's shimmying clumsily out of his pants.

Dean feels the back of his neck and ears come up all hot. He drops his eyes, staring determinedly down at the zips and buckles of his duffel. He doesn't know why he feels so uncomfortable. Castiel's his friend. A friend who's all pointy elbows and knees, no meat on him and certainly no curves because he's a guy, and not even a guy like Dr. Sexy is a guy. Just... Cas.

"So what were you doing out there for all that time anyway?" Dean asks. He makes a big show out of neatly folding the clothes that he's going to give Castiel, even though they'll all be unfolded in about ten seconds.

"I tried to communicate with my family." Castiel trips over the end of his pants and nearly hits his head on the wall. "I did not succeed. May I...?"

Dean looks up to see Castiel, stark naked but for damp blue boxers, gesturing awkwardly towards the bundle of folded clothes in Dean's hand. There's a hot itch under Dean's skin, a cottony rasp to the inside of his mouth, and it's a couple seconds before Dean even understands what Castiel's asking.

"Oh – right. Yeah. Sorry." He clears his throat and sticks his hand out. He won't look at Castiel but he feels him take the clothes. He stares down at the floorboards, where drops of melt-water are puddling. "Don't worry about it, man," he says. "I'm sure all the angels are all okay up there, high on tequila shots and smiting prostitutes. If you want I guess we could even try to talk to Gabriel since he's down he-"

"No," Castiel says firmly. He looks up to hold Dean's eyes with an austere intensity that's more than a little awkward considering that Castiel's still trying to work out how do up his jeans. "This is no business of cowardly run-ways." Castiel's eyes narrow as Dean opens his mouth, already pre-empting what Dean will say. "He abandoned us before my time. Regardless of whether or not they threw me out at the feet of humanity, the Heavenly Host are my family." He takes a step closer; Dean freezes up. He isn't sure what to do with Castiel bearing down on him. He can't decide whether to face up to the open and honest fervour of those blue eyes or let his own gaze be dragged involuntarily to the pale jut of collarbone and narrow shoulders. Castiel is now officially in his personal space, menacing despite the juddery twitch of cold muscle and the rattle of his teeth together. "Being dismissed from your family would not make you care for them any less, would it?"

"Uhh." Dean loves how that's the smartest thing he can think to say back. "Depends on whether they invited me back for Thanksgiving," he quips feebly.

Just like that, the moment's over. Gone. Castiel is back in his own space, tugging the shirt over his head, limbs all tangled in sleeves and buttons – getting the shirt on inside out but Dean doesn't tell him that. For some reason Dean still feels acutely uncomfortable and it's something to do with the way he finds himself watching the warmth and colour creep back under Castiel's skin.

Then Castiel catches his eye embarrassedly. "Is this right?" he asks.

"Yeah. You're fine." Dean pushes past him to gather up the wet clothes he'd shed and jerks his head towards the library to indicate that Castiel should follow him through. "We've got a fire on... you should warm up soon."

Dean starts draping the trenchcoat and soaked suit over various wooden chairs positioned near the fire. Sam and Bobby are already starting to fill Castiel in on what they'd been discussing while he was outside doing 'God knows whatever', as Bobby put it. Castiel's perching uncertainly on the edge of the couch next to Bobby, where Dean was sitting a minute ago. He doesn't seem to know whether to retain some of his old, stiff angelic dignity or just let go. He's still shaking as well, cold in spite of his new clothes. Dean drags a tatty tartan blanket from behind where Castiel's sitting and throws it at him, before leaning against a bookcase to listen to the catch-up session.

"Pagan gods," Castiel summarises bluntly after Bobby has concluded his explanations.

"We don't know which one yet," Sam says, drumming his fingers on the front cover of one book titled NORSE GODS AND YOU. "We've narrowed it down to a couple but we're still not sure."

"Not having any other helpful signpost symptoms, are you?" Bobby asks, tugging thoughtfully on at the peak of his cap – a brand spanking new red one, which he's been lamenting frequently in the past few hours after having dropped his usual beloved baseball cap into a can of diesel.

Castiel considers. "The contents of my vessel's nasal cavity are somewhat looser than normal," he says, after a moment's careful deliberation.

Sam stares, mouth slightly slack in horror, lips twitching as though he's struggling to pull a response up from somewhere. Dean delves into his pockets – jeans, then jacket – until he finds a tissue that doesn't look too gross, and wordlessly hands it over. Castiel meets his eyes gratefully, the corners of his mouth lifting, but merely clasps the tissue neatly in his hands like a precious gift. Whatever.

"Don't worry - we'll find something eventually," Sam says firmly, putting a brave face on.

"Well, not tonight, that's for sure." With a grunt, Bobby hauls himself to his feet and heads through to the kitchen, saying crankily as he goes, "And keep that damn fire going. If I have to reheat goddamn leftovers for you, then the least you can do is keep me from getting frostbite."

Dean crosses the room to throw a couple extra logs onto the flames, and then flops down into the space that Bobby vacated, complaining and pushing with his feet until Castiel moves over to make a little more room for him. Castiel scowls at that, but is still shivering too hard under his blanket to make any real protest.

"Hey Bobby?" Dean yells, twisting over onto one side to grab the remote from where it's precariously balanced on top of a stack of Bible translations. "You get your TV fixed?"

"Yeah, it should be okay now. If it isn't, you can leave it damn well alone. I'm already making you three dinner like a freaking housewife," Bobby calls back from the kitchen through the rustle and clink of metal utensils. "And no porn!"

Dean clicks buttons a few times, not exactly sure how to start everything up. It's been a long time since Bobby's TV worked and it's so old that he might have to hire a 1920s projectionist to run it anyway. After a couple minutes the screen flickers up slowly and the faint dusty images of men running through the jungle in hats comes up. "Aaah," he exclaims. "Perfect." He nudges Castiel with his elbow. "Gather around, kiddies. I'm going to show you some real TV."

Sam rolls back in the armchair, looking unimpressed. "Seriously?" he whines. "These movies are so predictable and the plot is always the same."

"Hey." Dean jabs a finger threateningly in Sam's direction. "No dissing Indiana Jones. At least in Indiana Jones no-one sings – therefore, automatically ten times manlier than any of the girly crap you watch."

"Musicals are inspiring," Sam huffs. "They take the most miserable of stories and they-"

"I pray to thee, the angel Castiel, to use your magical angel powers to shut my brother's cakehole," Dean says loudly. He lifts his hands to the sky but when nothing happens, he looks over sharply at Castiel.

Castiel blinks worriedly. "I am unable to use any of my powers," he says after a few seconds of uncertainty. "I thought that Indiana was a state?"

"It's both." Dean clicks the volume up, ignoring Sam's protests. "Okay, so the guy in the hat – no, the other one, that badass one – that's Indiana Jones. He's an archaeologist but he's also a treasure hunter. There are loads of films but this is the first one... and he's looking for..."

After a while Dean feels kind of sorry for Sam for having sat through two films with Castiel, even if they were girly films. For one thing, Castiel asks a lot of questions. He wants to know what kind of archaeology Indiana Jones studies (and apparently the answer "I dunno – all of it?" doesn't cut it); he wants to know what gives the Staff of Ra it's powers; he wants to know why the film producers have re-written World War Two. It's infuriating. For another thing, Castiel won't relax. The concept of watching a film for entertainment is beyond him; he's studying it, sitting bolt upright to attention and really concentrating on every detail of the film. And, last but not least, he's a shusher. If Dean so much as breathes loudly, Castiel hisses crossly at him until he shuts up.

"Okay, Cas," Dean finally says as his patience snaps. "You're-"

"Ssshh!"

"Cas, nothing is happening!" Dean talks over him. "Look. Nothing interesting is going on. You're doing this all wrong. You're turning temporarily human, right? Well then I'm gonna teach you to watch TV like a human."

Castiel frowns. "What am I doing wrong?" He sounds tetchy; Dean wonders if they aren't still sure that Castiel's under a Humbling Spell... it would explain the PMS at least.

"Relax a little, firstly," Dean tells him. "You're not going to get quizzed on the film afterwards. You don't have to sit up memorising every detail. It's just a movie. You can slouch, you can snooze, you can-"

"I cannot sit back," Castiel says quietly. "I am having continued difficulties with my wings. Leaning on them would be uncomfortable."

Right. Castiel's an angel. Dean forgets sometimes on the best of days but it's especially easy for it to slip his mind now, when Cas isn't all dirty trenchcoat and crackling electricity. He's just a skinny dude with damp hair sticking up in all directions and a too-big AC/DC shirt nearly falling off his shoulders. Castiel's eyes flick up to meet Dean's and it's only then that Dean realises he's staring. He looks away quickly.

"So, what, have you had some kind of wing Viagra overdose?" Dean jokes. "Can't you do something with them? Prop them over the back of the couch? Lie them against the wall?"

Castiel presses his lips tight together like he's considering it. Then suddenly books are getting knocked everywhere, flying off tables and falling in disorganised, paperback-spine-breaking heaps on the floorboards. There is a rush of air that stirs up papers in whirlwind circles, buffeting around Dean like he's the constant, the eye of the storm. The curtains get all tangled up around a shape that Dean can't see – but it's huge and Dean feels humbled. Angel of the Lord, he reminds himself. And that angel of the Lord is awkwardly lowering himself back onto the squishy cushions, glancing warily at Dean for approval. It feels kind of surreal.

"That's stage one," says Dean. "Stage two is enjoy yourself – unless you hate the film, in which case, complain loudly to anyone who'll listen."

"I like it," Castiel says after a moment's pause. He faces the TV again and Dean notices that he puts considerable effort into trying to look less concentrated. It looks a bit like he's trying to take a crap but Dean won't push it. They settle together.

Sam chuckles, giving Dean his least subtle oh-you-old-romantic-thing smirk. However, his cell phone goes off at that moment. Sam glances at the caller ID and then quickly gets up, heading away to take the call in the hallway. He has a silly smile creeping across his face, presumably from his hilarious implications of Dean and Cas being a couple; Dean throws a cushion at him but it bounces harmlessly off the doorframe. Damn. Then it's quiet. Except for the blare of gunfire and smashing furniture, of course, but that's expected.

It's during the lull of Indiana Jones doing some important, mind-blowing research that Castiel's head drops lightly onto Dean's shoulder.

Dean starts, surprised. He'd seen Castiel's eyelids clicking heavy with tiredness and cold but he hadn't thought he was that sleepy. Dean doesn't know what to do. He shifts his shoulder, hoping that maybe Castiel isn't actually asleep and will be jolted back into apologetic consciousness... but no such luck. He's out like a light and there's that slightly husky, stifled breathing that means he'll be snoring soon. Dean tries again to move Castiel over, push him gently to lean on the arm of the couch, but something's pinning Castiel still and heavy so that he can't be moved.

The wings, Dean realises suddenly. His wings are all stretched out at weird angles behind him so that he could watch Indiana Jones and now they're propping him up on Dean's shoulder. It's inescapable.

Castiel stirs a little, building up Dean's hopes that he might wake up, but then he's gone again, pushing his head – wet, cold hair and all – into the crook of Dean's neck. It's kind of embarrassing, really. Dean doesn't even let hot girls with giant boobs and cheeky smiles get this cuddly with him. He's all ready to throw Castiel off him and over the side of the couch – but then Castiel exhales this soft little breath, warm and sleepy on Dean's neck, and Dean doesn't have the heart to do anything. Castiel looks peaceful and his eyelashes have defrosted and they're curled up all wet on his cheeks and, ugh, Dean's going to have a vagina by Tuesday if he keeps up with all these feelings and shit. It's gross.

Still, Dean doesn't turf Castiel onto the floor. He makes himself comfortable, tries to ignore the fact that Castiel's there. And, as an afterthought, he turns down the volume on Indiana Jones a little, because Indiana Jones is great and all, but Cas is trying to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean smothers a yawn with the back of his wrist. He's stiff, he's cold and there's a dead weight on his lap like something died there. He blinks, bleary-eyed, and Bobby comes slowly into focus, leaning over him. It makes Dean jump.

"Morning, sweetheart," Bobby says sarcastically. He moves away quick. "I hope you asked for his hand in marriage first."

"...What?" To say that Dean is confused is an understatement. What the hell is—

Oh.

It comes back to him now. Indiana Jones. Castiel was tired. His head on Dean's shoulder. Then Dean was tired too. He doesn't remember the film ending. He doesn't remember anything until now, waking up curled backwards around Castiel. His face is practically in the stupid bastard's ass, and Castiel's head is in his lap like a dead hooker. This is  _not_  the way he planned his evening to go.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, sitting up. No wonder his back hurts like hell. He feels like an old man.

And – oh, yup, magical. Just magical. He's got a boner. Because it wasn't awkward enough accidentally falling asleep with Castiel. This is just perfect. He can't even move away to hide it either because Castiel's still lying on him like he's just a big stuffed teddy. Again...  _magical._

Then, since Dean's day isn't bad enough already, Sam walks past, snickering into a bowl of Cheerios. It's sickening. Someone is going to get punched. Dean glares at him but that only makes Sam laugh harder. He snorts milk up his nose and has to go back into the kitchen to sort himself out.

Okay. Dean is officially done being nice to Castiel just because he's a human now and he's like some defenceless abandoned kitten. Dean heaves him off his lap and stands up, quickly readjusting himself in his jeans before Castiel wakes up properly to notice what's going on. Then he grabs his duffel bag from the foot of the couch and starts going through it for a clean shirt.

"Dean?" Castiel's voice is muffled and groggy. He is clearly not a morning person. "What... I don't..."

"Up and at 'em, sunshine," Dean says over his shoulder. "We've got research to do." He tugs his T-shirt off, stows it away and pulls a new one on. Then he shrugs back into his over-shirts and jackets, layers upon layers of defences, and his hands floats instinctively to Sam's amulet to check it's still there. He packs the rest of his stuff and heads into the kitchen to get some food.

"That was a beautiful moment you shared," Sam teases.

"Shut the hell up, Sammy," Dean grunts. "Don't you have something better to do – like brush your hair or something?"

"At least I have hair," Sam replies glibly – which doesn't even make sense because Dean still has a full head of hair thank you very much and he's only four years older than Sam anyway.

Dean can't believe he managed to fall asleep yesterday without dinner. He shoves two slices of bread into the toaster and crams a third straight into his mouth, untoasted. He turns back and through the open kitchen door he sees Castiel sitting up, looking lost and bewildered. His hair is everywhere and he looks like he's been punched in the face – and not just in the way that his face is still bruised around the eyebrows and the bridge of his nose, but in the way his eyes scrunch up all tired and his mouth looks swollen from where it's been pressed against Dean's knee in weird ways. He looks helpless but Dean doesn't offer him a slice of toast. He eats both.

After breakfast, they make a plan. The Sioux Falls library, while devoid of much information on bloodthirsty monsters, is superior to Bobby's in one aspect: local knowledge. If there are any century-old dirty little secrets of pagan gods or Wiccan worship, the library should know. They tug on boots and overcoats for outside; Castiel seems ready to dash outside and get straight to work but Dean throws out a hand, toast and all, to halt him in his tracks.

"Whoa," he says through a full mouth. The crumbs he sprays make Sam's nose wrinkle in disgust. " _Whoa._  Not so fast, bucky. Socks, shoes, jacket, coat – the whole yazoo."

Castiel meets his gaze levelly. "Yes."

Well, even if the guy isn't all up to scratch with emotions, at least he knows when to do what's told. Dean's not sure what that says about him. Obedient little soldier.

Not that sure what it says about either of them.

Castiel pulls his now-dry suit jacket and trench from the chairs by the fireplace. With the AC/DC shirt replacing the button-down shirt and crooked tie, the combo looks a little Clark Kent but it's not entirely bad. Castiel glances over to Dean for the go-ahead and then leads the way outside.

However, even bundled up in extra layers to face the cold, they aren't prepared for the sheer  _quantity_ of snow.

They battle for a good five minutes with the door before they can heave it open, and then the snow that was all piled up on the porch now spills through the front door like a welcome mat. There's a good twelve inches of it, maybe more, and just the thought of wading out through it makes Dean's feet feel cold.

"Shit," Sam breathes, grimacing. "That was fast."

"Getting the Impala out of this should be fun," Dean mutters. He shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets to make up for the lack of gloves and scowls.

The snow has taken over everything. Even the Impala herself is a vague shape, white and blocky, with the occasional sheen of black gloss visible through the frost. There are four-pronged footsteps from birds that we were brave enough to land, and only one tuft of jagged leaves cuts up through the ice beside the porch where Bobby's shrubbery used to be. Dean can't even see the steps.

They double back for shovels.

An hour and a half later, they've made it down the front steps, salting every inch of the way, before they sag against the railings, frozen stiff and exhausted. They admit temporary defeat and trudge back inside for steaming coffees and cholesterol, rebuilding their strength for the next big push.

When they head back out, filled with new determination, the path that they cleared is gone.

* * *

The snow doesn't fall heavy and claustrophobic again but it doesn't melt either, and the path that Sam diligently clears every day disappears within the hour, under snow so fresh and pure you'd think it had never been touched. They've never made it to the car.

Day four of being trapped at Bobby's, Sam throws a hissy fit when his internet stops working.

They're running out of resources, exhausting the stacks of books towering on every available surface, and Bobby is running out of patience – he's forever tripping over duffel bags, scattered curling pages and a certain borderline hypothermic angel huddled in flannel blankets.

Castiel gets worse - his obstinacy about helping to clear the snow didn't exactly help. Now that he's recovered the ability to fold his wings in, he no longer waddles around like he has a stick up his ass, but now he's just miserable in general. He trails around the house, pale and gaunt, dark shadows under his eyes, getting under people's feet in his desire to help everyone with everything. He coughs like he's trying to get a lung out without any surgical tools, and the sound of his stuffy-nosed sniffling is a constant soundtrack to their lives. Sam gives him packet upon packet of tissues but Castiel doesn't seem to grasp why he needs them, and mostly he keeps them crowded around him like a little nest on the couch while he watches TV.

Bobby spends most of his time out of their way doing weird private experiments in the panic room, or he's marching around yelling at them to  _get out of his way_  and  _tidy that up_  and  _no, Dean, I won't be making you any pie, you lazy bastard_. It's not even like Dean could make his own pie – if he knew how, that is – because aside from a loaf of mouldy bread, the fridge is entirely filled with dark, suspicious jars and bottles. 'For his experiments', Bobby claims. Right. Dean wonders who it was that pissed him off so badly. He decides not to ask about pie again.

So they eat a lot of leftovers. Bobby grouches that he isn't going to be cooking them five-star meals every day – as he puts it, it's their fault they got landed in the Day After Tomorrow, and so they can jam ideas of Bobby playing housemaid too right up their asses. They're running low on luxuries though, ketchup and butter and beer.

They watch a lot of TV. Sam and Dean bicker like kids over who has the rights for the remote; apparently ' _I'm bigger'_  now trumps ' _I'm older'_. Dean calls bullshit. They both want to entertain and educate Castiel, who mopes around growing thinner, twitchier and more hollow-eyed by the day. They alternate, giving him  _The Godfather, Titanic, True Grit, The Phantom of the Opera_  – and to Dean's horror, Castiel really does like musicals. He seems indifferent to everything else but as soon as John Travolta and that blonde chick start sassing about the school with their ' _tell me more's,_ Castiel perks up. Shows run out of episodes to air and begin repeating last season. Dean tells Castiel to read a book before he gets hooked on Gossip Girl, because after that there really will be no going back to heterosexuality. Sam gets kicked for mentioning Dr. Sexy MD. All three of them become familiar with the twenty-four-hour news loop but it's depressing to see things from the outside world when they're trapped in a tiny, tiny bubble.

It's been eight days since the shifter attack. They haven't found a way out yet. They haven't found out what's going on.

Sam isolates himself a lot, hiding away all the time either with his fancy-ass super-computer or with his cell phone, constantly texting. Castiel is still trying really hard to be useful and Dean can't decide if it's pathetic or kind of endearing.

Castiel shines silverware, orders chipped porcelain ornaments in neat, military lines; he vacuums diligently, dusts shelves, and even spends one day entire day alphabetising Bobby's entire book collection. He winds all the clocks, sits quietly and watches them tick and tick, checking to make sure they work. He washes dishes that don't even have to be washed, wiping gently at the Styrofoam packets that Bobby packaged his leftovers in, looking confused when they crumble, sodden. He gets this really intense, careful expression as he scrubs and rinses, like he's made a promise to every plate and cup to look after them, and it's a promise he intends to keep.

It drives Dean crazy.

It isn't anyone's fault in particular. Dean is just restless in his own skin. He hates being trapped in one place, feeling domestic. For Christ's sake, there has to be  _something_  more than this that they can do. He's probably the worst person to look to with questions of  _what now_  and  _where do we go_  but it seems that everyone is playing house around him. Washing dishes, cutting up vegetables, shovelling snow, watching TV. Yesterday Dean even caught Castiel  _sweeping._

Bobby's beer cupboard is running low as well... probably because Dean near enough inhales them, not feeling enough of a kick from one that he has to grab another three to feel safe in his own scars. Weirdly, Bobby doesn't seem to have anything stronger.

Dean snaps on day eleven.

The kitchen lightbulb is running out of power and it keeps flickering on and off and on and off like a black-and-white film montage of happy families. In each flash of light, also in the slow-motion brought by strobes, he sees Castiel squirt enthusiastic dollops of dish soap onto every individual dish and he thinks  _what about when the dish soap runs out? You're using it up too fast and next week we won't have any and-_

And that's what makes him angry. Without recognising it, he too is planning for next week. He has let himself slip into this cosy world of tomorrows and next-weeks and after-Christmases. Who gives a damn about the dish soap? Who gives a  _damn_  about the fucking  _dishes_?!

Castiel is staring at him.

Dean hadn't realised that he'd said that aloud.

"They're dirty," Castiel says. He doesn't react to Dean's frustration, only to his accusations that the dishes didn't need to be washed. As if to prove his point, he pulls a finger through sludge of sauce, leaving a bright white trail.

Dean stalks across the room, snatches the plate out of his hand and tosses it back into the soapy water with a sploop. "Leave it – for Christ's sake, Cas, just – just leave it!" he says angrily. "You're sick. There's no freaking point in you washing dishes. You'll just get them all germy and gross again."

A tiny crease crinkles up between Castiel's eyebrows. His expression has hardly changed but somehow he looks crestfallen. It's mostly in his eyes. Disappointment.

"Be nice, Dean." Sam comes in with an empty juice glass. "He likes washing up. Why don't you just-"

"Why don't you just shut the hell up, Sammy?" Dean snaps.

Sam recoils. "What is your problem?" he asks, probably bewildered by the sudden turn of events. He should have seen this coming.

"What part of this  _isn't_ my problem?" Dean says. "Look around you! We've been trapped here for  _eleven days_ , doing jack all, watching stupid films and reading the same books on the same lore and not getting  _anywhere_!"

The kitchen is silent under the broken bulb, waiting for what he'll say next. Sam has that tragic look in his eyes like he just wants to hug all the sadness out of Dean, and Castiel... ugh. Dean wants to punch Cas in the face. Castiel is just calm, composed, his head tipped slightly to one side with concern flickering deep back in dark eyes. They are both patient, letting Dean rant. He gets the feeling that they are both allowing him his anger, like mommy and daddy curbing little Timmy's rage problems by letting him shout himself hoarse. It only makes him angrier.

"Jesus Christ, we are literally just filling the hours here! Sitting on our asses, twiddling our thumbs, doing  _nothing_!"

Dean can't express himself properly. He can't explain the bone-deep hunger for something to do. Someone to follow. He needs orders and directions and a list a hundred miles long of the people he has to save and he can't do jack- _shit._

"I don't think that's the real problem, Dean," Sam says quietly. He takes a step towards Dean but Dean bats him away.

"Yeah, that's the  _real problem_ , Sam," Dean retorts, mimicking Sam's whiny tone of voice. "Don't make this about my feelings – this is not about my... my  _feelings_!" He sees Castiel turn away, pick up another greasy plate, and his rage bubbles over. " _Leave the fucking dishes alone,_   _Cas_!" He grabs it rudely from Castiel.

He's not really sure what his fingers are doing but there's ceramic smashing and scattering. It doesn't feel like enough.

"What in the hell are you idjits doing up here?"

Dean turns, guiltily, to see Bobby coming in, red-faced with anger.

It takes Bobby a few seconds to take in the scene; after that, the first thing he does is point a finger at Dean. "You watch yourself, boy. You can smash your own damn crockery in your own damn house! I've a mind to shake you 'til your brains come out your ass except that you probably ain't got enough to go around."

For a second Dean wants to argue. Then he remembers that it was Karen Singer's crockery. He falls silent, ashamed, and twists off to face the window, teeth clenched defiantly. Bobby's doing a lot for them, sitting house, feeding them, trying not to mind that they're forever in his way. He bites the insides of his cheeks until it hurts.

Castiel, ever the pacifist, kneels like he's praying and starts scooping up the broken shards of dirty ceramic with his bare hands. Dean sees that Castiel has no concept of sharp things being dangerous and he knows that he'd better help out before the dumbass accidentally slits his own wrists or something.

"Hey, don't do that," Dean groans, crouching opposite him. "You'll slice your hand open."

Too late. There's a bright splash of blood lengthways along Castiel's index finger, puddling in the curved surfaces of the shards, easing into the cracks and whorls of his knuckles. Castiel just stares down at his hand as though he isn't sure whether to drop all the pieces he's gathered up to deal with his injury or just keep going.

Dean carefully picks the bloody, greasy mess out of Castiel's hand, dropping them straight into a scrunched-up bundle of old newspaper. "Watch out... next thing you'll be getting papercuts," Dean says quietly. He forces a laugh, pretends that his little tantrum never happened.

Castiel isn't buying it. He stares at him, all questioning blue eyes and downwards-turned pouty lips. There's a little smear of soap suds on his left eyebrow, starkly contrasted with the dark bruising around it. Dean tears his eyes away. He takes Castiel's elbow to help him to his feet and takes him back to the washbasin to rinse the excess blood away.

"It's looks bad but it's pretty shallow," Dean tells Castiel, pushing his injured hand back into his chest. "You'll live. Hold on though... just suck on that for a second – it'll stop the blood all gushing back out. I've got to get up the rest of that plate before you shred your feet too. Then I'll deal with you."

The newspaper, plate and all, goes gently into the bottom of the trashcan, and it's as Dean's lowering it through the flap-down lid that he realises Bobby and Sam have cleared out of the kitchen. They're probably convening in the library to discuss his PMS-ing. Awesome. He grabs a broom from the corner of the room and jabs at the floor-tiles to get any last microscopic shards out of harm's way.

"There." Dean stands, leans the brush back against the wall and dusts his hands off on his jeans and looks back over at Castiel. He's doing exactly what Dean asked him to. He doesn't look as though he knows why or if it's even having any positive effect but he dutifully sucks on the tip of his finger, a vaguely distracted look furrowing lines across his forehead, and Dean doesn't why but he can't stop watching. He's staring at the uneven curve of Castiel's mouth around his finger, the wet shine inside and beyond his lips, and he finds suddenly that his own mouth is sawdust-raspy under his tongue and there's a hot ache in the pit of stomach, pounding one-two-three for attention. Castiel's eyes flash up to meet Dean's – and  _shit,_  Dean cannot take eye contact with that kind of behaviour.

"Stop that," he says roughly. "Your finger'll be fine now."

Bobby's first-aid kit is stored under the kitchen sink. Dean drags out the box and rummages through for a band-aid. He guides Castiel to the kitchen table and helps him to sit down. His hand goes limp, letting Dean play with his fingers and knuckles to get the angle right for dressing up his battle wounds. Dean is more used to stitching up gaping bullet-holes with dental floss and re-locating shoulders; it's been a long time since he was gently putting band-aids on anyone. There's something comforting about it though. Knowing that everything will be okay afterwards, that this will be a sure-fire fix, no thick pink wedges of scar tissue left behind afterwards... it's easier.

By the time Dean smoothes the itchy nylon down around the edges, Castiel is oblivious. He gazes idly out the window at the sky like he's already completely forgotten both the incident of injury and his own minor freak-out about blood. The soft, snow-dappled afternoon sun picks out the shadows under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks. He's wasting away before their eyes. He needs to get his mojo back – and soon. Dean remembers the Castiel that he met in 2014 and thinks that being human doesn't suit him at all.

Not sure what step to take next, Dean lets Castiel's hand fall to the table. He gets up. The room seems all at once too big and much too small, and Dean has to fill it with something. Anything. He pokes a finger into the warm, sudsy water in the sink, watching the pink and green ripples he leaves behind. He tugs the dishtowel from where it's tucked neatly into the handle of a cupboard, balls it up and throws it at Castiel.

It makes Castiel jump, startled. His head snaps over, away from the window, and stares at Dean confusedly. He doesn't move the towel from where it's now dramatically draped over his shoulder. He doesn't ask the question but it's spoken in the pull of his eyebrows.

"Well, you sure as hell can't do any washing-up with your hand bandaged so beautifully, but those dishes aren't gonna dry themselves either," Dean says sarcastically.

Castiel blinks. For a second he looks like he might insist Dean does the drying or even flounce away in a grand refusal to cooperate – but he eventually rises. He comes to rest beside Dean and they settle into a silent routine. Dean passes the washed dishes straight into Castiel's hand, and by the time Castiel has towelled the dish dry and put it back in its place, Dean is ready to hand him the next item.

Scoop, scrub, rinse. Repeat.

"Do you want to talk?" Castiel randomly asks, his voice cutting through the quiet slop and slosh of water on ceramic. Dean looks up at him, surprised, but Castiel keeps wiping the dish he is holding, shepherding soap out of cracks and ridges. He continues, "I know that it's typical to make conversation while washing the dishes."

"Huh." It doesn't sound like anything a hunter would say... or anyone that Dean knows, really. Dean dunks a narrow-rimmed beer glass, bubbles glistening. "Who taught you that?"

There's a pregnant pause.

Castiel takes a long time returning a bowl to its cupboard, making sure that it slots neatly into its stack. He comes to stand next to Dean again, taking the now-washed beer glass from him. Finally, he says, "You did."

Suddenly Dean knows what he's talking about. His throat tightens but he focuses on the last of the beer glasses that he's washing. He doesn't look up at Castiel again and in his peripheral vision he can see that Castiel is also deliberately staring down at the glass he is drying.

Dean can't tell if he wants Castiel to elaborate, to say the next few words that he knows are coming. He can't open his mouth to stop him but he isn't sure that he would, even if he were able.

"I watched you," Castiel says, quietly but without shame or regret. Very matter-of-fact, as always. "The months you were with Lisa."

There it is. Of course. Silly, silly Dean had completely forgotten about Lisa but it all comes back now. Washing dishes together. The baseball games. The Sunday morning fried breakfasts. All of it. He isn't sure how he feels about any of it now. He left Lisa and Ben on good terms, saying that he had to find Sam but he'd be back soon. That had been over a year ago. He had found Sam, easy, but he just... never went back. After that there were things to hunt, people to save. He was always busy. The phone calls had become less and less frequent. He can't remember the last time he spoke to her. He can't remember her voice.

When Dean thinks about it, he's never sure why he didn't go back. He certainly didn't leave that lifestyle so that he could find himself here, trapped at Bobby's house, washing dishes and watching the way the sinews of Castiel's delicate, busy hands twist under his skin as he towels beer glasses dry.

Silence still stretches between them.

Dean says dryly, "Is that so?" It's all he can think of.

The words are light, could be interpreted as humorous, and have none of the questions he wants to ask. Questions like  _why? What else did you watch, you creepy son of a bitch? Were you watching over us? Were you keeping them safe? Were you keeping me safe? Were you keeping me from this hunter lifestyle, keeping me in check and making sure I didn't go looking for Sammy? What did you see in us? Were we a good family? Was I a good father? Was it the life I was supposed to lead?_

He leaves his questions at  _is that so._

The glass that Dean puts into Castiel's hand is still a little scummy at the bottom but he can't be bothered to reach right down to pluck up all the problems and scrape the dirt out. He swirls his hands around in the warm water a couple times, mixing up the bubbles into pyramids and glittery mountains all pretty with refracting light that bounces and fades with every on-off-on of the dying kitchen bulb. He's all out of dishes to wash. He grabs the empty beer bottles from the counter, lined up neatly, and rinses them once each, holds them under the water while they glug and fill. He realises after a second that the hush is the kitchen is too thick; Castiel is waiting for him to say something else. He tips the bottles upside down and leans them so that all the water will drain out. "No, I don't want to talk," he says.

It doesn't really matter. He didn't need to say that; the dishes are already done and it's pretty obvious that the conversation is over. He pulls the plug, wipes the scum out of the sink and heads back through to the library, ready to challenge whatever new monster theories Sam's got, as well as challenge Sam's determination to talk about his feelings. Even though there are only one or two more dishes left dripping on the sideboard for Castiel to dry, he lingers alone in the kitchen under the flickering bulb long after Dean's shadow has pulled from the door.

* * *

Castiel takes to the daily attempt at clearing a path to the Impala, just for a reason to get out of the house. Dean can see him through the windows, red-cheeked with cold, nose swollen, eyes watering. His hands shiver on the shovel. Dean has half a mind to go out there and just tell him to stop being such an idiot, but he doesn't. Castiel isn't a baby. If he gets sick, then that's his own dumb problem.

"So what do you think?"

Sam is suddenly throwing himself down onto the couch beside Dean, who would complain, but all he's doing is boredly switching between a re-reading of the King James Bible and a really shitty eighties' movie about some girl with a bike. Dean sighs. "About what?"

"About everything. All of this." Sam waves his hand ambiguously. "Cas turning human. The Humbling Spell theory. Pagan gods. You're usually pretty opinionated, Dean. You've been quiet recently."

Dean groans. "Oh God, we're gonna start talking about our feelings, aren't we?" To be fair, he'd seen this coming the instant Sam sat down. No-one has since mentioned Dean's plate-smashing rage two days ago; he's almost been waiting for this.

"I don't know, man," Sam blunders on. "It's like... this isn't you. You're too..."

"Happy?" Dean demands. "Happy – why, because we haven't got the Apocalypse ripping into our asses? Because Bobby has legs and neither of us are dead and Cas isn't having a mid-life crisis? What do you want from me, Sammy? I'm _happy_ , so sue me. Why is that so-"

"Happy? Dean – you started screaming at Cas about the freaking  _dishes,"_ Sam reminds him. "You're not happy, Dean, you're... you're acting like how you think you would act if you were happy. Like you're going through the motions."

Dean's eyes roll. He almost wishes that it  _was_  still the Apocalypse. Then at least Sam would have real problems to latch onto and whine about. "Sammy," he says, turning around to stare into his eyes with every ounce of sincerity he can muster. "I'm fine. Really."

"Does Bobby know you're the one who finished his beer?" Sam asks bluntly.

"Sharing is caring." Dean turns away. "Do you mind? I'm trying to do research here."

The bitch-face that Sam gives him is so powerful that Dean can feel it searing into the side of his face without even looking at him. Dean pretends not to notice; he turns the volume up on the TV.

A merciful distraction comes in the form of Castiel bursting in from the hallway, wet to the knees and wide-eyed. "Come quickly," he says, urgent and breathless. He clutches to the doorframe as he sneezes, and then pressing the back of his hand instinctively to his nose to stop another one coming. "We need to get Bobby too. But, please – the path may disappear. Let's go!"

Dean and Sam exchange looks of confusion and concern but don't argue. They grab their jackets and follow; Sam peels off down the corridor to the panic room, shouting over one shoulder that he's going to get Bobby. Castiel holds the door open for Dean and they pick their way carefully down the salted steps.

"What's going on, Cas?" Dean asks, bewildered by what he sees. There is no hint of a path cleared towards the Impala – because Castiel has not even tried. He has been digging instead under the porch steps.

"I found something," Castiel pants, dropping to his knees and gesturing for Dean to follow. "While I was doing the steps, I noticed the snow was stained an odd colour – and since this snow is clearly the work of something preternatural, I wondered what could possibly have such an influence on it, after all this time. And then," Castiel continues, pointing, "I thought that perhaps it was the other way around – perhaps  _it_ was influencing the snow."

"Wait, what? Let me see." Crouching, Dean shuffles forwards and peers through the gloom.

Castiel works to clear the rest of the snow, and as Bobby and Sam come racing out, shrugging into coats, Dean sees it.

"Holy crap."

They all bunch together by the steps, feet and hands cold as they kneel in the frost, and they study the rune in front of them. Where the snow has been scraped away, there is a huge circle carved into the hard dirt under the porch; inside the circle are foreign symbols drawn in dark blood, and scattered around the edges are all the icky things that Dean hates – baby teeth, animal bones, bodily fluids – and because of this that he instantly knows it's witchcraft.

"Oh, great," Dean mutters, sitting back on his heels.

"I don't know what the effects of this particular spell would be, though," Castiel says, teeth clattering together. "Due to the proximity to the house, perhaps it is related to the localised snowfall."

"Hang on – can I-" Sam shuffles, trying to see, and clambers awkwardly past Bobby and Dean. He traces a finger lightly through the drawings and squints at the blood. "I'm pretty sure this is the real deal as well. This one would have actually worked." He picks up the items one at a time, inspects them and then carefully puts them back exactly where he found them. "Real silver... these teeth-"

Dean cringes away, making a face as Sam picks up a string of brown baby teeth and rolls them in his palm.

"-are a couple hundred years old, at least. This is legit." Sam rests his chin in his hand, elbow propped on his knee. "Damnit."

One by one, they crawl out and get to their feet, brushing the snow from their knees and shaking their hands to try and get the colour back into them. Castiel hits his head on the edge of the porch; Dean grabs a handful of his trenchcoat to carefully guide him out.

"Maybe we were looking at the wrong way," Sam says, slowly, pensively. "Maybe the badly-done ritual back at the cabin wasn't trying to make us think that it was a witch... maybe the ritual was badly-done so that we would assume it couldn't be a witch. Maybe it was trying to get us off its tracks."

"Well, it worked," Dean grumbles. "So, what now? Are we back on the Humbling Spell theory?"

"That ain't a Humbling Spell," Bobby interrupts. He's bent double by the porch rails, checking it out. "If Cas is under a Humbling Spell, it didn't start here. This is something else... I don't know what it is but it's different."

Dean exhales slowly, shoulders slumping. "Let me guess," he says brightly. "We've got a lot of reading to do."

"You got it."

Bobby leads the way up the porch steps, stomping snow off his boots with every step. Dean glances between the two others left behind. Sam dejectedly stares after Bobby, clearly not really looking forwards to the thought of more research; Castiel looks elated at having contributed something useful to the team, and is smiling faintly despite the shiver that judder through his body like electric pulses.

Seeming to sense Dean's stare, Castiel looks over to meet his eyes. He's all at once quiet and calm and warm in a soft kind of solemnity that sends heat under Dean's skin like a flashfire. Dean looks away. Sam is watching them intently.

"Jesus, Cas, you're gonna end up with pneumonia," Dean says meanly, for a less of anything else to stay.

Castiel doesn't answer. He turns away from Dean, the fade in his happy discovery a chill that Dean can almost feel, and slowly climbs up the steps into the house. Sam wordlessly follows, and Dean is left in the stubborn cold, watching the snow close in.


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby's library is the messiest that Dean's ever seen it. After Dean's explosion at Castiel for being too tidy, he gave up. He doesn't try to fill his hours with cleanliness anymore; he just sits on the couches and looks at the walls.

This morning the room is the same sprawl of ugly knitted blankets, half-broken camp beds and leather books as yesterday; the funk of old socks and sweaty bodies is only made more unbearable by the faint rattle of plumbing, the whispering rush of water upstairs where Sam is getting washed, like a painful reminder that cleanliness and personal hygiene is only just out of reach. Castiel is half-hidden by the chaos, a very small shape on the couch, knees tucked in close, hands loose around a can of Coke.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, scouting the mess for clean clothes so that he can go shower, "have you seen my shirt?"

Castiel doesn't answer. He stares ahead, unblinking; Dean doesn't even know if Castiel can hear him. Dean opens his mouth to call again, to get the dumb son-of-a-bitch's attention properly, but something in the blank dejection of Castiel's creaseless brow stops him short. Sometimes a guy just doesn't need questions.

Instead, Dean quietly picks through the detritus around him, trying not to disturb Castiel as he shoves aside heaps of old newspapers and dirty clothes. He finds his old flannel shirt under some books on Norse mythology and tugs at the sleeve, hoping one good yank will be enough to drag the rest out of it free of whatever it's tangled up in – and then the last decent leg of the Castiel's camp bed collapses with a mighty crash.

Castiel looks up, finally startled from his reverie.

Damnit. Dean hurriedly tries to restore it to its natural position, without success, and then ultimately decides that complete destruction is the only answer. He quickly kicks out the other legs of the camp bed so that it lies completely flat, which he thinks is less obvious than the awkward upwards curve like a torture rack, and it thumps down heavily to sag on the floorboards.

"You broke my bed." Castiel speaks without inflection, without blinking.

Dean grins guiltily, jamming his hands into his pockets as he surveys the room. "Best night of my life," he jokes.

Only now does Castiel look up to meet Dean's eyes, and his brow furrows infinitesimally in bewilderment. His mouth opens slightly as though he's going to answer but he seems to think better of it. Instead his eyes flicker down to the can in his hands, surprised like he'd forgotten it's there, and then he holds it out to Dean. "Would you like to share?" Castiel's voice, all gravel and sandpaper, is completely wrong for his tentative tone and the bizarre endearment of his question.

A thousand jokes swirl through Dean's head – something tasteless about how he didn't know that Cas had felt that way – but Castiel is just gazing at him, open and uncomplicated like trust is a given. Dean doesn't say anything except, "Thanks, Cas" and he steps carefully across the room past stacks of books to take it from him.

Castiel's long piano fingers are angled weirdly, like he's being very careful not to touch Dean's hand. Dean remembers that Castiel is still nowhere near recovered from illness and is properly concerned about passing it on. It's the sort of considerate but neurotic thing that he would do.

Dean swallows and lifts the can, pausing with the ridge of the can just pressed into the round of his lower lip watching the downwards fall of Castiel's eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders like surrender – and drinks. He nearly chokes.

Castiel's eyes snap back up to look at him in alarm. He moves jerkily, not sure if he should reach out or stay away, and waits apprehensively until Dean splutters, "Jesus Christ, Cas, what is this?" Blinking owlishly, Castiel gives no indication of any comprehension. Dean shakes the can so that the liquid sloshes and clarifies: "This is disgusting. What the fuck is in this?"

A familiar frown, previously erased from his features by wide-eyed fear at Dean's apparent near-death experience, creases back along his forehead. "I don't know," he says. "Bobby gave it to me."

Dean peers at the label. It shouts in bright letters the name of some standard supermarket-brand Coke but it sure as hell doesn't taste like that. He lifts it, cautious not to tip out the contents, and reads the sell-by date, which is too blurry to pick out individual numbers. He swears again. "I didn't even know this shit could go off..." He takes another mouthful and almost kills himself again. It's just as disgusting the second time. "Yeah, that's gross," he splutters. "Jesus. That must be so far past its date... if that was an animal, I'd have it put down."

"I quite liked it. May I?" Castiel holds out a hand to take the Coke back. He lifts it to his lips - he hesitates for a moment, wary eyes on Dean – and pulls a long sip. And if Dean's eyes are instinctively drawn to the shape of his mouth pressed to the metal and then lower to the tanned lines of Castiel's throat as he swallows, well, he's just making sure that the drink doesn't knock him over dead. Castiel lowers the can, looks blankly at Dean and says, "It tastes fine to me."

"Clearly you're not a sugar connoisseur as I am," Dean replies. "Trust me though. It's bad. Throw it out."

Looking disappointed but obedient nonetheless, Castiel peeks inside the can as though he might be able to find some answers. He then heaves himself slowly, reluctantly to his feet to go and dispose of it, his shoulder pushing gently into Dean's chest as he moves past.

At that moment, Sam thumps heavily down the stairs, long hair damp and shiny from the shower that he seems to have been taking for the last four hours. He stinks of girly hair products and Dean is tempted to go over and deliberately burp on him.

"What's going on?" Sam asks, scratching the back of his head distractedly.

"God..." Dean shakes his head with a short laugh and explains. "Bobby gave Cas a Coke that's, like, at least a year past being edible."

"Edible is eating. Drinkable is drinking," Sam corrects, anal and prissy as ever.

"Whatever. It was so disgusting. You should have tried it."

Sam's nose wrinkles, his lips twitching ready to slam down at any second into the mother of all bitch-faces. "It smells disgusting in here too – crack a window or something," he complains and he eyes Dean suspiciously.

Dean realises what Sam is getting at and throws up his hands defensively. "I didn't, I swear," he protests. "Hand on heart, girl scout promise. I have not dropped one."

Much to Dean's humiliation, Castiel then returns from the kitchen, having disposed of his Coke, just as Sam is getting all self-righteous and demanding, "Tell me honestly – look me in the eye and try to tell me that you haven't farted. Because it is – god, it's awful. It's overwhelming – like... like eggs and rotting fruit and-"

"No, I haven't!" Dean says indignantly, raising his voice to drown out his stupid little brother's enthusiastic descriptions of the imaginary odour. "No. Okay? I have not done anything. Really. Can we let it go? I mean, I can't even smell anything." A quick look at Castiel however tells Dean that his attempts to save face are futile; Castiel is glancing between them blankly, clearly baffled by the exchange.

"Well, of course you can't if you did it-"

"And you know what – everyone knows that the guy who smelt it is the guy who dealt it, so if anything-"

"That's bullshit and you know it-"

"Hey, fuck you man. It was true that time you dropped one on that striga hunt-"

"What about that time when we were with dad, huh? You know exactly what I mean – going after those vampires and we thought the engine had exploded-"

"Jesus Christ, get over it – it wasn't that bad-"

"Dad genuinely thought you had shat your-"

"Okay, Sammy!" Dean yells, throwing his hands out to pacify him. "Okay. That is really, really enough. Let's stop now. I haven't , and fuck you, but I'll open a goddamn window."

Sam sniggers, triumphant. He retrieves his laptop from being partially buried under old newspapers and wet socks and flips it open, as Dean balances precariously on the couch to unlatch the window. Cold air rushes in, raising goosebumps on Dean's forearms and swirling loose pieces of papers across the floor like old ghosts. "Bitch," he grumbles.

"Jerk," Sam replies airily. He makes some whispered comment to Castiel before laughing, side-stepping him, and moving away to sit at the kitchen table. He either doesn't see or deliberately ignores the rude hand-gesture Dean aims at him.

Trying not to step on anything important, Dean jumps down inelegantly from the couch. There's a long hush. Hesitantly, and expecting the worst, Dean sniffs hard. The air seems clean enough - a little musty with sweat and wood-smoke, but otherwise fine. He suddenly realises that Castiel is still staring, nonplussed.

"Don't gimme that judgmental face," Dean says gruffly. "I didn't."

Castiel, standing in the epicentre of the mess, instead frowns down at the chaos of the tall piles of books and the collapsed camp-bed. His fingers, now empty, hang loose and apathetic by his sides, as though his Coke can had been the only thing keeping him afloat amongst the terror and anarchy of disorganised Bibles, and now he's just content to sink.

Dean thinks of Castiel's need to keep busy, to keep himself helpful when he's never felt more useless with clipped wings and an empty tank, and Dean thinks that maybe he was a little bit of an asshole when he took away the only thing Castiel was hanging on to. It's a first for Dean to admit that sort of shit – he knows he's an asshole, but he prefers that as a kind of given.

Dean looks down at his hands.

"So, uh," he starts, clearing his throat awkwardly, and then tries to assume some authority. "Are you just gonna freaking stand there or are you gonna help me clean up this shit-heap?"

Castiel just blinks at him.

Dean coughs, feeling a heat come up under his skin, and tears his eyes away. He sets about gathering up all the clothes, stuffing the clean ones back into his and Sam's respective backpacks, and hurling the dirty things to the far corner by the roaring fireplace so that he can whine at Bobby later until he agrees to wash them.

As he picks through things, frowning at food-stains and sniffing clothes to make an executive decision as to whether they can be worn again, Castiel begins to move slowly to pick up some books. Dean looks up at him, and Castiel stops, as though spooked. Dean doesn't speak. Castiel doesn't move. And then, wordlessly, as Dean keeps on, Castiel follows his lead. They pretend not to be sneaking glances.

Dean tries to fix the collapsed legs on Castiel's bed but it looks pretty complicated; he'll need at the very least a screwdriver and some new bolts, so for now he folds the other legs under to let it lie flat on the floor; he'll look at it later. The couch has been pushed to a weird angle, the coffee table all skewed sideways. He rearranges the furniture so it's all straight lines and angles to Castiel's satisfaction. Dean still suspects that one of the supposedly 'human' traits that he has developed is being a obsessive neat-freak, but it gets shit done so Dean won't complain.

Then there's the books. Jesus, but there are so many freaking books. Thankfully, Castiel has already tried to organised them a little, so they are stacked neatly in different categories, waiting to be shelved. Dean grabs a few. "Where are we putting books on South Asian theology?"

Castiel directs him to a bookshelf on the other side of the room, by the hallway door. "Between Norse demi-gods and Biblical translations. No – the shelf below. Not that one. Dean. Below. There."

Dean obediently slots the thick volumes into place and from his kneeling position looks up with a wink and a grin. "You know, I love a bossy librarian."

Seeming not to notice the humorously lewd tone to Dean's voice, Castiel replies softly, "I like order."

Something slots into place then.

Obsessive needs for things to be just-so; cleaning the Styrofoam packaging when it will only fall apart in the water; praying in the snow until he gets hypothermia. Dean stares at Castiel like he has never seen him before, suddenly caught up in images of the angel, wrinkled tan trenchcoat or multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, marching blindly through blood and mud and soot-feathered wing prints left long after the bodies have faded. Dean has always selfishly thought that he is the only one who has spent his entire life cleaning up other people's messes, that no-one else would be left empty in the wake of a war – and he recognises now that, yeah, he might be lost, but he's not alone.

Then he's staring down dark blue eyes and he jolts. At some point in that train of thought, Castiel has met him halfway. Dean goes cold, anxiously wondering if he has accidentally been thinking out loud again, but whether or not Castiel heard him, he gives no reaction. Not the crease of a frown, not the downwards twitch of the dry moue of his mouth. He simply gazes silently back at Dean like he's been searching endlessly for something he had until now not truly believed existed.

Once upon a time, even from the opposite sides of the room, it would make Dean uncomfortable – the intensity, the trust, the sincerity. Things are different now. It's probably the spell, or whatever else Sam believes is supposedly wrong with Castiel, but the open, soft expression in his eyes is very human. Even more human is the way he abruptly sucks in his bottom lip, drops his eyes and quickly turns away. Dean also averts his attention to his books.

Since Sam recently took to theorising about djinns, there are a lot of books about Middle Eastern religion and magic. Dean attempts to organise them geographically but he gets confused and he can't remember if Jordan is a city or a country so he stuffs them all in at random.

Castiel shuffles a few books, checking blurbs and spines before walking to stand beside Dean. He stretches to replace his books on the top shelf – straining on his tiptoes, Dean notes with a chuckle.

At the sound, Castiel looks down, surprised. "What?"

Dean slots the last of his Asian books into place and stands, dusting his hands on his jeans. "You alright there, short stack?"

Castiel scowls but admits, "I have never before been hindered by the physical limitations of my vessel."

"Whatever happened to your vessel, anyway? If you're sort of human now, where's Jimmy?" Taking the rest of the books, Dean helps. It really is a very tall bookcase and for a second Dean worries that he's going to have call in Sam the Ginormo to help him reach... nope, he's got it under control. His sense of dignity remains intact.

"Jimmy has been gone for quite some time," Castiel says. There is a hint of regret and sadness in his voice. "At the very least, if he remains, I have not been able to feel his presence. I don't know what happened."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up," Dean reassures him, voice muffled by the bookcase in his face. "I liked the guy too, you know, but... he did good."

"Yeah," Castiel says distractedly. "He did." There's a faraway, nostalgic glint in his eyes. Dean wonders if he misses Jimmy. Two guys sharing a meat-suit... must be pretty cosy. Like the worst room-mate ever – a room-mate who gets you stabbed and shot and ripped apart, but a good, kind-hearted room-mate all the same. Dean guesses that sharing limbs and torso is the sort of thing you can't do without getting kind of attached.

Dean settles onto the balls of his feet – the fact that he also had to use his tiptoes is something he'll take to his grave. "Alright." He claps his hands together. "Anything else for that shelf?"

"No. Thank you," Castiel says warmly, despite the flush pinching the tops of his ears and on his neck along the line of his grubby T-shirt collar. It's one of Dean's old band shirts and it dwarfs him; Castiel is slight, narrow. The effect is made worse by his illness and the shirt hangs low and droopy on his collarbone.

Instinctively, Dean reaches out and straightens it. "Dude, you have got to get some clothes that fit."

Then Sam's voice is calling, loud and obnoxious, from the kitchen doorway. "Am I disturbing something?" he asks, poking his head around the corner. "Don't go all Brokeback on me, man."

Dean steps away from Castiel with a jerk like they've been discovered doing something far more incriminating. He darts over to snatch up a lumpy cushion from the couch and hurls it at Sam's head with delightful accuracy. The pillow is accompanied by a few choice words – mostly creative variations from the ever-faithful fuck you, you fucking fuck – to which Sam merely giggles like a schoolgirl and insists that cabin fever brings out the love in everyone.

When Sam finally stops being a douchebag and gets to the point, it's revealed that his laptop is having some kind of a freak-out; the screen flashes all sorts of desperate, panicked messages in alarm-bell colours. Neither Dean nor Castiel have the slightest idea what's wrong with it but they both try to help as best they can – just hit the space-button until it gets better! Look, there's a little red light, what's that? Turn it off and then on again! What's a router? Eventually Sam realises that he would probably be better off asking the fridge and he sends them away with lots of flamboyantly camp hand-flaps, asking instead if they can fetch Bobby from the panic room, 'like right away now please because I was in the middle of something please don't just um please'. Because that's what he went to Stanford for.

Bobby is still doing his weird experiments. As Dean descends the stairs he hears him shout, "Don't come in!" from the depths of the panic room and after that it's about five to ten minutes until Bobby finally emerges. Ruffled, sweaty and clutching two ominous-looking bottles of dark liquid, Bobby snaps, "I'm busy – what do you want?"

"Yeah, sorry. Sam wants some help with the internet." Dean tries to peek past Bobby into the panic room. "What are you doing in there anyway?"

"If you don't mind," Bobby says crankily, shutting the door behind him with his foot so that Dean's view is abruptly cut off, "I'm looking for a way to stop your little angel from wasting away before we can fix him proper. Is that a problem?"

Dean flinches a little, taken aback by Bobby's rudeness, which isn't exactly atypical but it's kind of excessive today. "No, but-"

"You keep outta that room, you hear me? I won't have you messing with my work," Bobby adds, scowling. He thrusts the two gross experiment bottles into Dean's hands. "Take those up and put 'em in the fridge if you're interested in keeping Cas. Now where's that damn brother of yours?"

By this point, Dean is getting tired of leaving voicemails.

He's left five this week already, and to no avail. Jody just isn't picking up. Nonetheless, there's no harm in trying again.

"Hey, Jody, it's Dean." He props himself against the arm of the couch and looks down at the floor as he speaks, shoulders heavy with the knowledge that Sheriff Jody Mills is still off in Nowheresville, where she can't be contacted and can't be of any help to them. He tries not to sigh down the phone; after all, this isn't The freaking Notebook. "Uh, I know that by now you must have, like... eight other voice-mails from me – sorry about that – but we're still stuck at Bobby's. We could really use some help, when you get back from wherever you are. So... yeah." He trails off for a second, not sure how to finish this message. "Yeah. Basically, if you just call us back when you get any of these so that we can sort out what's going on, that'd be great. Okay. Uh... bye."

Damnit. Dean hangs the phone up and spends a second staring at it, imagining how great it would be if it just suddenly started ringing and Jody was on the other end, apologising for not getting all of their other messages and how can I help you boys? Until they can find a way to bust out of Bobby's house and the near-apocalyptic snow outside, she's just about the only thing who would have a clue what was going on in Sioux Falls and how to stop it.

Dean has no idea how long he sits there moping for, but he's brought back into the present by the sound of creaking floorboards and faint, shuffling footsteps off to his left.

He glances up to see Castiel, clad in Dean's old recycled clothes, sleep-rumpled, and looking ever more bone-thin and brittle than he did the day before. He's leaning up loosely against the side of Bobby's desk, hands clutched tight around a wrapped pack of Kleenex tissues, and he sways a little when he says, "If we knew her cell phone number, we could try calling that."

"Gee, what a crazy idea," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "Cas, if I had her cell number, I would've called her a million times more already. She's changed her number or something, and Bobby's lost his goddamn phone book."

Yep – in yet another act of great inconvenience, Bobby has misplaced the only other tool that would have been useful. The phone book, it seems, has taken an extended vacation to the other side of the earth, and so all helpful contacts beyond those which are saved in Sam and Dean's mobiles are more or less untouchable. It's frustrating, to say the least, but Bobby can barely remember where he put down his coffee three seconds ago, let alone where he lost the phonebook; it could have happened months back, and shit gets piled up on top of other shit in every room here as fast as you can blink.

"Oh." Castiel looks down at his feet. "My apologies." His face scrunches up, and for some reason it looks horrifyingly like Castiel is just about to burst into tears, and terror clogs instantly in Dean's system because he has no idea what to do with that – but thankfully, Castiel just sneezes violently, although he almost bashes his head against the doorjamb in the process.

As Castiel fumbles to open the shrink-wrapped packet of tissues, guilt wrenches painfully through Dean's gut. Castiel's sick, he's tired, and he's certainly not going to get any better with Dean being an asshole when he was only trying to help.

"Hey," Dean says. He pushes himself off the arm of the couch and treads a few awkward steps in Castiel's direction, pausing uncertainly before he reaches him. It's only then that he realises he isn't sure what to say, and for a second he just stands there, taking in a deep breath – and then he blows all the air out with puffed cheeks and says bluntly, "Man, you look like shit."

Castiel's eyes flash up to meet Dean's, the blue of them made all the more stark by the dark hollows underneath and the sharp cut of his cheekbones, cast white by sickness.A tiny crease pulls down between his eyebrows, confused, but he doesn't answer; he doesn't really need to, admittedly, since Dean can read the defensive there's no need to be rude now in the rise and tense of his shoulders.

Dean reaches out and takes the pack of tissues out of Castiel's hands – slips a fingernail under the give of one plastic corner, slides it open, and yanks a tissue out like a flag of surrender. "Here."

Still sniffling like some snot-nosed toddler, Castiel takes the tissue from Dean to dab uncertainly at his nose. "Thank you," he mutters.

Dean tosses the rest of the pack onto Bobby's desk, and somehow on the way that hand detours back via Castiel's shoulder, gliding loosely over his upper arm and tugging at the material of his shirt where it hangs lopsided. . "You okay? Do you want a cup of coffee or anything?"

A tiny crinkle folds up at the tip of Castiel's nose; he hesitates. "I don't enjoy the taste of coffee."

"Yeah, I don't think anyone does," Dean admits with a short laugh. "I mean, it tastes like bitter ass – most people just drink it for the kick."

Castiel still looks decidedly unhappy at the prospect, so Dean concedes to letting this one go.

Instead he squeezes Castiel's shoulder and heads off into the kitchen. Through the wide window at the far side of the room, he can see Sam in the scrap-yard, flailing his cell phone wildly around in a bid to find a signal; frost is condensing on the lower panes of glass and trickling off to dampen Castiel's trenchcoat where it is slung lazily over the back of a chair against the wall. Dean shakes the best part of the cold water off and hangs it by the stove instead, where it has a better chance of drying off. A cold coat certainly isn't gonna help Cas get better any faster, that's for sure.

"Come on, Cas," Dean calls back over his shoulder as he sets about rummaging through the pantry. "There's gotta be something in here to cheer you up." He pushes through tins of assorted animal body parts and baked beans, stretching up on tiptoe to peer way to the back. "Uh, there's half a pineapple here... some mouldy bread, that's always nice. A lot of weird tea... ginseng? Earl Grey? Peppermint?"

"Peppermint?" Castiel echoes—

And Jesus Christ but his voice is right by Dean's ear and how the fuck did he even get there?! Dean jumps half out of his skin and as he whirls to confront Castiel, the metal tin of peppermint tea he was holding gets swept wildly off the shelf and is floor-bound – but Castiel, for all his red-nosed bleariness, still has lightning reflexes, it seems, and he catches it.

Castiel tips the tin in his hands, listening to the rustle and scrape of tea-sachets sliding around inside - seemingly oblivious to Dean, with his back pressed up against the kitchen counter because Castiel is close enough that Dean can feel his warmth everywhere, smell the hard, unfriendly starch of Bobby's soap on his skin, and it's just plain weird.

"Cas?" Dean prompts, his voice oddly strained. "Can you-?"

Castiel steps back without apology; there is only the hint of a flush high on his cheekbones to hint at any awkwardness. "I'm intrigued by the idea of peppermint tea," he says thoughtfully – and then he looks up at Dean with wide, hopelessly blue eyes all tilting sadly down at the corners like woe is me I have no idea how to make a cup of tea and I'm so terribly ill – so Dean snatches the tin off him and gets to work, grumbling under his breath.

A tea-kettle screaming like a murder victim, enough sugar to kill a diabetic, and one peppermint tea-bag later, Castiel is content with his cup of tea, and so he and Dean retreat to the library.

While Dean digs around looking for the TV remote, Castiel curls up small on the couch, peering down at Dean and providing unhelpful suggestions such as perhaps your arms aren't long enough to reach it and well, Sam would probably be able to find it, until Dean comes up triumphant, remote held aloft like a trophy.

However, Dean very quickly begins to wish he'd never suggested watching TV at all, because the first thing that flickers onto the screen is a bedraggled girl singing about being on her own, and Dean's heart sinks faster than the overloaded lifeboats cast off the sides of the Titanic. Unfortunately, Dean can practically hear Castiel's face lighting up.

It's a long shot, but Dean lifts the remote experimentally, thinking that maybe Castiel won't notice him changing the channel before it's too late – but Castiel's head instantly whips around to look at Dean, expression dismayed.

Dean's eyebrows lift high in a desperate plea for anything but a goddamn musical – especially this goddamn musical. "What?" he complains. "No – come on, man. It's called The Miserables for Christ's sake – and in French as well, like they're not douchey enough. Dude. You can't be serious. You just can't..."

That's when he trails off – because that's when Castiel's eyes slowly fall to stare down into his mug of tea, too tired to fight for it – because Castiel is small and thin in a shirt three sizes too big, in a borrowed body that's fraying at the edges – and the words just stick in Dean's throat.

"You just can't," he says, his voice filled a quiet enthusiasm that he throws his entire being into effectively faking, "watch it this quietly! It's like an abomination – you've gotta have it pumped up to, like, at least fifty."

Castiel looks up sharply, surprised, and a faint tinge of colour rises in his cheeks at the sight of Dean grinning back at him. The crease in his brow levels; there is a softness to his mouth which is almost a smile; he looks fragile and unhealthy still, but he also looks content and warm and just... incredibly grateful. A handful of seconds pass before Dean realises that Les Miserables is still harping on and on from the TV set, and that he and Castiel are literally just staring at each other in an unsettlingly comfortable silence, so he jabs Castiel in the arm and points over at the TV.

"Look," he says. "Some people are making out and you're missing it."

Castiel does as he's told, but that doesn't stop him from occasionally glancing over at Dean throughout the movie to check that he's enjoying it (which he isn't, but you know, whatever) and since Dean's pretending to be having fun watching this European sing-song bullshit, he thinks oh, what the hell, he might as well go all-out. He slings an arm across the back of the couch, his hand dangling loosely so that it just brushes against Castiel's neck – and if Castiel leans ever so slightly into the touch... well, he's just cold.


	6. Chapter 6

It began with a bottle of rum.

It seemed like a good idea at the time but as Dean guides Castiel away from the kitchen, he reflects that perhaps it wasn't the best. Technically speaking, it began with Bobby's inability to fix the internet and the fact that the TV satellite had also stopped working, leaving Dean, Castiel and Sam with nothing to do. They had begrudgingly cleaned every inch of the house and had all pitched in to help fix the legs of Castiel's camp-bed; they had played card games but Castiel didn't understand the concept of cheating or bluffing, and there's no point in playing if you know who's going to lose every single game – Cas, Cas, Cas. And then they found the rum, tucked away far at the back of the pantry, where they had never previously considered searching for alcohol. And they drink it – because, hey, 'it's two a.m. somewhere'.

Despite Sam's insistence that playing I Have Never should definitely be left to girls that Dean wanted to bone, rather than his kid brother and best friend, they had played. It hadn't ended well. Sam and Dean had revealed each others' every dirty, embarrassing secret in a war of escalating drunken stupidity, while Castiel sat happily sober as a result of his own worldly inexperience. They had quickly learned how to smash him though, with statements like "I have never smited a sinful city" and "I have never met the Messiah". From that point, Sam and Dean teamed up to destroy Castiel, although they realised quickly that while hilarious, in his new human form, Castiel can't hold his liquor. He barfed three times - the first time, not even realising what was happening until it was too late and so made no move to vacate the table.

Dean groans, remembering the hysterical, clumsy attempts to clean up the vomit before Castiel slipped in it and fell down.

However, unluckily for Castiel, it had become rapidly apparent that he isn't cut out for binge-drinking. Very soon after he had thrown up the first time, he'd grown almost feverish, shivering so violently that he could barely stay in his chair. He'd been a little shaky and hollow-eyed since the early afternoon – another side-effect of the spell – but either away, within the space of an hour after vomiting, Castiel had come over spectacularly unwell. The two Winchesters had come to an agreement that it was best to all get to bed and here they were now... trying to get into bed without hurting themselves: a task more difficult than it sounded.

"Don't break your bed again," Sam snickers from the far corner. He and Dean paper-scissor-rock every night for who gets the camp-bed that lies parallel to the smouldering fireplace and every night Sam wins. Sam's already sprawled out on his bed, making no attempt to get up and help Dean to relocate Castiel. Dean's shoulder is wedged into the angel's armpit, clinging tight to his waist in order to drag him across the room.

"Yeah, I always thought Sammy was the fat one, but you might have to lay off the cakes, Cas," Dean chips in with a snort. He feels infinitely better with rum pumping through him. He feels loose, relaxed, comfortable. Sometimes when he's drunk he gets depressed, wishing that he could feel this content without alcohol, but at the moment he feels great. A little dry-mouthed, a little tired and heavy, but wonderful all the same. He hopes it'll last.

"All I have had today is an egg and a bagel that wasn't even good," Castiel mutters into Dean's shoulder, trying to defend himself. "My vessel is smaller than your... your meat... your meat-bodies. Suits. I haven't had any meat – actual meat – today. I want a burger." His words are slurred, incoherent and all Dean can hear is something about burgers and suits.

Dean pats Castiel on the back. "Cas. Come on. Get into bed."

"I don't think my feet are real," Castiel insists blearily. "My feet are not real feet."

"Okay. Great. That's real nice, sweetie. Now get into the fucking bed."

Dean attempts to carefully lower Castiel onto his camp-bed but Castiel becomes a dead-weight, crashing down onto his back on the mattress. Castiel squirms like a bug and then sits up, getting grabby at Dean's shirt and using him as a lever to haul himself up. He pulls himself to eye-level and it's kind of disconcerting when Castiel stares at Dean with eyes so unfocused and blurry. "My feet are made of light," he tells Dean, very seriously. His face is all screwed up with solemn concentration and it would be kind of stupidly cute, were it not ridiculous. Plus his voice is way too deep and stony for the imbecilic bullshit he's spouting. "My hands too. Everything. My face. All light. I was the shiniest in my garrison."

Sam laughs so hard he whacks his head against the side of Bobby's desk. Dean glares at him for being an unhelpful ass-hat and then pries Castiel's hands away from his clothes.

"Lie down, Cas." Dean prods and tugs at Castiel's scrawny limbs to get him into a sleeping position, and then flaps an itchy flannel blanket over him. "There's a bowl next to your bed if you have to barf again. Don't die or anything, or I'll kick your ass. Now go to sleep."

Castiel presses the side of his face roughly into Dean's hand, his skin hot and damp. His hair is sticking up in clumps like he's been dragged through a dumpster backwards and there's the faint sheen of sweat over his forehead. "Dean," he murmurs, his eyes searching. "Dean. I'm cold."

"Christ." Dean, whose head is starting to pound, and who is also exhausted on top of that, is not impressed, but he goes back to the couch to grab his own blanket and throws it over Castiel. "Happy?"

No answer. However, Castiel huddles under them like a hibernating dormouse so Dean assumes he's fine. He climbs onto the couch, stretching out its full length, and thinks to himself that it's been a long time since he tucked anyone into bed like that. Years since Sammy, and in a pang of remembrance that startles him, he comes to the conclusion that Ben probably didn't count. Lisa always took care of Ben and anyway, Ben was sturdy. Ben didn't get pneumonia or absolutely hammered and he didn't cling to Dean with curled, cold fingers asking to be looked after.

"That was a really sweet moment you two just shared," Sam says sleepily, his voice distorted and distant.

"Shut up, bitch," Dean mumbles, squishing his cheek into the couch cushion.

"Jerk."

Then silence—

Silence broken by a crash. Dean jerks upright, tiredness clearing out from his eyes fast, a hunter's reflex- panic and adrenaline flood his system as his hand automatically slips under his pillow for his knife – where's Sammy is he okay protect Sammy – and then he freezes.

Nothing's happening.

The room is quiet and still, darker than it was a second ago, and Dean realises that hours have passed.

The clock is ticking noisily in the corner but there's not enough light filtering through the curtains to ask it the time.

Despite the hush, Dean doesn't trust the dark. He clutches his knife tight in his clenched fist, squinting through the gloom. "Sam?" he calls worriedly. His voice is hoarse and scratchy, dry from drink, and it cracks a little.

There is no response.

Dean's eyes begin to adjust. He can see the knot of Sam's body in the foetal position under his blankets, rising and falling slowly. Dean relaxes with the knowledge that Sammy's fine, and then his eyes flit over to Castiel. However, the bed seems to be gone. Dean blinks, bewildered.

He rubs his eyes. Blinks again. Nope, Castiel's bed – a bed that Dean would recognise anywhere now after spending a laborious many hours battling with the broken legs to try and repair it - is definitely gone.

"Cas?" Dean swings his legs around to rest lightly on the floor as he stares through the night at where Castiel and his bed should be.

Shifting, awkward movement attracts Dean's eye lower and he realises with a flood of relief through his body like pain-killers kicking in that the camp-bed has simply collapsed again. As he finds Castiel, a small shape made bigger by the den of borrowed blankets, he notices that he's shuddering weirdly.

"Cas?" Dean repeats, louder this time. No answer. He slides his knife back under his pillow and stands to pad softly over the cold wooden floorboards. He smashes his toe into the corner of the bed and swear under his breath - "Jesus – fucking a whore – fuck my – ow-" - and that, more than anything else, seems to get a reaction from the quivering pile of fabric, which abruptly becomes still.

Still lamenting his probably-broken toe, Dean crouches next to the broken bed and gingerly prods the heap. "Cas, you awake?" he whispers. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, like a baby mouse emerging from its burrow, Castiel tugs down the blankets from around his face. The glow of moon and stars outside is shitty through the curtain material but there's enough light for Dean to see the devastating, hooded bleariness to his eyes, the bruise-like shadows carved underneath, the way he tightens his jaw like... like a stupid fucking soldier – to stop himself from shaking. He can only get one word out: "Dean."

"Holy crap, Cas, what happened?" Dean eases himself down to sit on the edge of Castiel's mattress, careful not to disturb his elaborate blanket scheme.

"Nothing," Castiel mutters. "I'm fine. I'm just. Just cold."

Guilt trickles through Dean as a chill. Castiel hadn't been particularly well all day and then he and Sam had helped to screw with him, getting him drunk to the state that he's almost paralytic. Dean knows it's not safe to leave him like this, especially if it's some effect of the spell. He reaches out to push Castiel's sweaty bird-feather hair away from his face and feels his temperature with the back of his hand. The ice of his skin makes him flinch in horror.

"Christ, Cas," Dean exclaims. "This is really bad. Why didn't you wake someone up?"

He glances around for more blankets but he can't see any others except the one thrown over Sam, which Dean is unwilling to take. The logs in the fireplace are black and crumbling cool now; it would take too long to build a fire back up and it wouldn't warm Castiel up fast enough anyway. Dean groans in the back of his throat. This is insane. Only freaking Castiel would manage to get hypothermia from too many rum shots. Dean makes a note never to take him to a strip club – and, weirdly enough, that's what brings him to a solution.

Tomorrow, he decides, he'll blame this on the lingering fingers of rum clinging to his blood and brain.

"Take off your shirt," Dean tells him. "And, uh, your pants too."

When Castiel only blinks at him, groggy and confused, Dean hooks a thumb into the back of his collar to demonstrate, yanking his shirt free of the tangle of his head and arms. He feels exposed, little bumps rising on his arms and chest in the night air, but he pushes at Castiel stubbornly until he starts feebly trying to squirm out of his clothes. Dean kicks out of his jeans with the grace of a man who's been with way too many whores – keeps his boxers, thank you very much – and gets under the blankets. Castiel's cold bare legs bump against his as he flails awkwardly out of his shirt. Then he's shivering more violently, teeth clattering together like broken railway tracks, and he has that wide-eyed, anxious look about him, deer in headlights. Dean lies down, shuffling in closer; Castiel grows still, only his shoulders trembling with cold under the scratchy flannel.

It's a few long, awkward seconds before Dean can look up to meet Castiel's eyes. There's something prickly under Dean's skin at the knowledge that Castiel is stretched out next to him in one layer of thin plaid cotton, plus fuzzy socks with holes in the heels. Something about the shivering cold expanse of his body, the way he shifts self-consciously and his feet knock into Dean's, the dry brush of skin on skin and the heat searing underneath. Dean's mouth has suddenly grown very dry; he licks his lips, roughly, mechanically, and breathes even. There's something like static buzzing in the room between them.

"You alright now, Cas?" Dean meets his gaze now, jaw set and ready to handle the quiet intensity of those blue eyes. "Are you warmer?"

"What are we doing?" There's a strangled creak to Castiel's voice, a bob of his Adam's apple under his skin. Dean hears the click of a hard swallow in his throat.

Dean ignores the question. He doesn't really feel like elaborating that they're practically cuddling so that Cas won't die of cold because Dean's kinda fond of him - true or not, it sounds weak and girly. "Are you warmer now?" he insists.

Castiel hesitates. "Somewhat," he says, then, in a rush of obstinacy, adds crossly, "You don't have to do this. I am perfectly fine – I am an angel of the Lord and I have stood sentry for more than a hundred years at the Gates of Paradise when the Great Snow caused-"

"It's real cute when you say that with chattering teeth," Dean interrupts sarcastically. "Budge up closer. You're not gonna get any warmer over there and you're near enough falling off the damn bed anyway. Look, just forget all the personal space rules. Come on."

He grabs Castiel's elbows and tugs him a little closer. Castiel obediently moves into the little space left by the curled shell of Dean's body, but he's all pointy elbows and sharp bones after all the weight he's lost through his illness. He jabs into Dean's stomach and then nearly catches him in the balls with a sudden knee-jerk shiver.

"Sorry," Castiel mumbles, twisting so he doesn't hurt Dean.

"No – ow – it's fine, just stop – stop moving your knee so much-"

"It's just... shaking. I apologise, but-"

"Ow. Seriously, Cas-"

"I'm not moving my knee voluntarily," Castiel says through gritted teeth, scowling. "I can't help shivering." His irritation brings a smirk to Dean's lips – partly because a pissed-off Castiel is always hilarious, and partly because being warm enough to get grumpy is an improvement on hypothermic.

"Okay, this isn't going to work," Dean says. He bumps a fist – because fingertips seem too intimate – into the jut of Castiel's hipbone to move him. "Flip over. If we're doing this at all, I will not be the little spoon."

Castiel blinks at him, bewildered; Dean bumps him again to encourage him. With that little pout and frown, Castiel apprehensively turns onto his other side, baring to Dean the long line of his back. There's a churning throb in Dean's stomach like he's standing on the high board staring down at very deep, dark water, and Dean needs a few seconds before he can bring himself to wriggle nearer. Castiel's skin is freezing cold to the touch – and touch Dean does, planting one palm flat, fingers spread, on Castiel's back, while the other hand loops loosely around his side to rest on his chest. Dean slots in behind him, curving neatly. With Castiel pinned between two hands, Dean can feel his every soft breath, rising and falling in stutters as he fights the trembling.

"Now what?" Castiel's voice starts from somewhere deep in his chest, rumbling under Dean's fingers for escape.

Dean considers this. "Now we sleep," he says after a moment, though there's something in the air that makes sleep seem the most ludicrous suggestion. Something that stirs inside Dean, something hot and fierce that he traces through his body to his fingertips, to where Castiel's pulse is felt through skin and muscle stretched paper-thin and man-shaped. Judders of cold run increasingly slow down the slopes of Castiel's narrow shoulders; he'll be okay.

The neat metallic clock on the mantelpiece is ticking, humming. The slices of starlight through the window blinds glance off it brightly; the second-hand seems to be crawling slower than the minute-hand. It's odd, but not the weirdest thing to happen this week. Dean blinks slowly.

His feet are stuck.

Dean's head slumps forwards slightly, pressing his mouth warmly into Castiel's shoulder.

He can't move.

Castiel moves beneath Dean, stirring a little, and Dean's face slips into the crook of his shoulder.

He screams but he's making no sound. The words form on his lips and his mouth but never go any further – and the "where am I going? What am I doing? What now?" die out, empty.

There is movement and warmth and solidity before him. There is a hand on his hand.

The colour trickles from the street, black and white. He wishes for dark; he wishes for light.

A shaking. A judder through his spine. His name and a please, his name again like a prayer – with a certainty built on more than faith.

Here is the option, Dean, take it or leave it. It's not the taking or the leaving that counts but the space it fills.

"Wake up, Dean!"

He spasms. The dream drains away and only a shortness of breath and a glitter of sweat across his body stays behind. Dean splutters and gasps in the dark, completely disorientated. He grabs at his pillow for the knife underneath – no pillow, no knife. Rolls over for the bottle on the bedside table. No bottle. No table. He's on the floor. A mattress, collapsed. Cold floor and thin carpets. He's trembling.

"Dean?" A voice he recognises.

Bobby's house. Library. Castiel's camp-bed with the legs all buckled. Castiel. Castiel.

Dean rolls back over, blinking rapidly to clear the dust from his eyes. Castiel has turned to face him and is staring through the dark. The moon has moved through the sky, now falling through the curtains in bright sharp lines. Castiel's face is picked out in silver, misting his nose and bunched-up frown and stubble. He looks concerned; one hand is half-lifted over Dean's shoulder, which he immediately retracts when Dean stares at it.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean demands under his breath, not wanting his chaotic night-time activities to disturb Sam.

Castiel studies him carefully. "You were dreaming badly," he says.

"That's none of your damn business." Dean dismisses the conversation by flipping onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling in a moody silence, but it's kind of weird because in his peripheral vision he can see that Castiel, unmoving and solemn, is still looking at him intently. Dean refuses to make eye contact but after a nerve-wracking few seconds of deliberation, hating himself for being reduced to this, he says gruffly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Jesus Christ, Castiel is still staring at him. Dean closes his eyes tightly to block him out. He lies very still, concentrates on relaxing. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest like a marathon-runner. He mentally flips through the glossy pages of some car magazine he saw a while back, but he doesn't settle. He is edgy and he doesn't know why – and, not making things any better, Dean can still feel Castiel's eyes on him like a creepy voyeuristic old man.

When the dumb bastard finally breaks the silence, it is not with the words that Dean expected. He says, "You feel purposeless." Straight-forward and factual. Almost as though he's telling Dean about Passage Whatever of the Bible or the latest monster to kill.

What the fuck? Dean opens one eye, then the other. His whole face contorts into a frown. He twists his head sideways to look Castiel in the face. "Excuse me?"

"I see your feelings," Castiel explains. "I can no longer read your mind or perceive exactly what you believe but... you think you're purposeless. You feel as though everything in your life – the union of your parents, your birth, your mother's death, your upbringing, your relationship with Sam and with your father – has all been designed to bring you to a conclusion that you never reached." He stops here for a beat, like he's wondering if he's gone too far. He licks his lips roughly and continues: "Everything was leading to towards your destiny of being Michael's one true vessel and now, without that... you're-"

"I'm what?" Dean snaps.

"I wouldn't say lost," Castiel says pensively. "Rather... side-tracked."

"Side-tracked." Derisive, Dean snorts. He brings his head back around to stare blankly upwards. He can still feel the rum fizzing through his veins but all the same he is not nearly drunk enough to talk about his emotions like Sam is always so desperate to. Dean thinks to himself that Sammy would probably kill babies to be involved in this conversation. "That's a hell of a lot to get from just a feeling, Cas."

Castiel does not respond to Dean's sarcasm. Instead he says, so quietly that Dean almost misses his words, "I understand."

For a split-second, Dean forgets. He props himself up on one elbow so that he physically towers over Castiel, anger swelling through him and he's caught midway between the desire to punch him solid in the face, break some bones, and the desire to fall upon him asking for help. He says angrily, "Oh, do you, you poor precious thing-"

"Angels are created of three components; faith, obedience and light."

Castiel speaks like he's reading off a list but there's a note of regret and loss humming beneath his words. He clears his throat. His eyes fall away from Dean's in an attempt to hide the desperate shatter of his eyes and whatever beyond that was supposed to be keeping him going. The attempt is a failed one; Dean sees.

Castiel continues, his voice stronger now. "I lost faith. I disobeyed. And now my Grace is gone. I was designed to be a soldier of God, a warrior of Heaven – and now God has abandoned me and Heaven has thrown me away. And so I ask you – not to belittle your appalling sense of self-worth, not to challenge you about destiny, nor to make the point that I understand how you feel as I am essentially in the same predicament, but I ask you... as a friend..." Castiel stares him down, eyes dark and hollow and empty. "Now what?"

All of a sudden Dean feels numb and hollow. He deflates, sinks back down onto the mattress, side-on so that he can still look at Castiel. A sigh tears out of him without permission and he finds himself saying, "I don't know, man. You could... you could try to go back there and-"

"It was a rhetorical question," Castiel says bluntly.

"Oh."

Silence stretches out and thins between them again. It isn't awkward. Dean long ago accepted Castiel's problems with eye contact and personal space... why is it any different if they're sharing a bed and a blanket and body heat? That's what best friends do. And best friends share this sense of looking after and being looked after, of letting yourself take when you've given everything. Best friends stare at each other in the dark, finding the cracks in each other and the patches where stitches are wearing out. Fix each other, maybe. That's what friends are for.

Dean finds himself saying things he never meant to say to anyone.

"What am I doing, Cas? God's awesome plan for me ended months ago. I'm doing the same as whatever I was doing before I got screwed over by all this angelic bullshit. Saving people, hunting things... do I actually give a crap about any of that? I've been following my dad's orders all my life, and then when he was gone I had all angels and demons shouting at me – do this, do that, Dean, be this – and yeah, none of those dickwads would have won Mentor of the Year but... but they gave me choices. Cas, I've never had an original thought in my head. Other people tell me what to do and I either obey them or I defy. It's always been that simple."

"I am perhaps not the best advocate for free will," Castiel says, mouth and eyes soft as he looks at Dean, "but it would seem that the time has come to make your own decisions."

Dean slumps. "What did you do when God bailed on you?" He sounds like a helpless child and right now he doesn't even care.

"You mean aside from going on a bender?" Castiel asks dryly.

Despite himself, Dean cracks a small smile. It's nice that they've reached the stage where they can make jokes about their own self-destructive reactions to father failures. "Aside from that, yeah."

The tiny lift of a smirk is gone from the corners of Castiel's eyes and lips. "I followed you," he confesses. "You had a plan, a sense of your own identity, a will to keep going. That was enough for me."

"Well, great," Dean mutters. "That leaves us going in circles. Who am I supposed to follow?"

"If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that you're supposed to lead."

Dean's head drops heavily onto the mattress. "What?" he groans, pushing his face into the scratchy thin cotton. "I've never led anything, I-"

"That's interesting," Castiel says slowly, staring past Dean, deep in thought. "You see, I was under the impression that you inspired a revolution against the forces of Heaven and stopped Judgement Day... but obviously I was wrong. That must have been a different Dean Winchester." His eyes roll back to Dean, complete with withering expression and smug quirk of eyebrows – and only then does Dean realise he was being sarcastic.

"Hey, no-one likes a smart-ass!"

Dean shoves half-heartedly at him, but his hands haven't even dropped before Castiel grabs Dean's wrists. He doesn't so much as blink – just holds him absolutely still. The movement is sudden, unexpected. His eyes are hard, an unspoken stop-being-an-immature-dick, and endless in the dark. Dean finds himself speechless, mouth slightly open because he's vaguely aware that words, preferably bitchy words, would be a good idea right now, but he's frozen. Castiel's fingers are cool against the pulse point inside of his wrists.

"I am only saying that you have faced bigger problems than an existential crisis, Dean," Castiel says firmly. "Everything will be-"

He is such a hypocrite. Dean's vision throbs in front of him in pixels and colours that seep into each other. "Well, excuse the fuck outta me, Morgan Freeman," Dean snaps, yanking his arms free of Castiel's hands and determinedly ignoring the cold spaces left behind on his skin, "but I didn't hear any of that bullshit coming out of your mouth when your destiny got turned inside out!" He shoves him again, this time with the intention to hurt, hands braced and angry. "Where are the magnificent choices you've made, huh? The path you've decided to follow of your own free will – because all I see of you right now is a sad, drunk sonofabitch curled up under your blankie with a cold. So please... please enlighten me as to how to reach your plane of nirvana and peace, O Great One."

For a few long seconds, Castiel says nothing. His lips press into a thin line, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Finally, he says tightly, "I did make my choices."

And that is something that Dean had not anticipated. "What?" he asks incredulously. "You wanted this? Stupid hunts, getting your ass kicked, hypothermia – the whole sorry kit and caboodle?"

Castiel's resolve wavers; his eyes flick down. "Not all of it... not human... but yes. There is nowhere else I would be."

Dean lets out a low whistle. "Jesus." He lets himself fall onto his back and gazes vacantly at the ceiling again as he considers this revelation. "That's depressing. You could have had anything, Cas." When Castiel doesn't answer, Dean gives a short, mirthless laugh. "Maybe you are on a higher plane then. Again. Goddamn celestials... I just – I have no idea where I wanna be."

Quiet. They aren't quite breathing in sync, but almost. Dean closes his eyes and focuses on the simple things – the lift and fall of breathing, the horrible texture of flannel blanket against his bare chest, the way that the mattress slopes away beneath him towards the weight of Castiel's body.

There's something that's been bugging Dean.

"Cas," he says, his voice a little strained. "You know the other day – when we were washing dishes and you cut your hand and—yeah, you know. Then. You told me that I taught you about making small-talk while you wash... that I taught you that from when I was with Lisa."

"Yes."

"What else did I teach you?"

Castiel takes his time answering. Dean does not open his eyes to see his deliberation; he waits.

"You taught me a lot of things," Castiel says carefully. "Human things. You taught me the way you rake leaves, right to left, in little short strokes like old Hebrew script... you taught me that you have to really follow through with the bat – or... or the ball ain't gonna make it as far as the garden shed, you said. You taught me that folding over the corners of pages is okay but never with Vonnegut books, because you said that Vonnegut didn't put all that effort-"

Dean's eyes are open. Throughout Castiel's little monologue, he has battling a weird fight-or-flight that he's never experienced outside of encounters involving salt-rounds and icky blood rituals. Even as he stares at the ceiling, he can see himself in the things that Castiel is saying – he can see that life, those clothes, that neat green garden with autumn leaves crisping on the grass – and he's terrified. His lips are moving but speech is trapped in his throat, and his mouth is very, very dry.

When he finds them, words come out in a burst, ragged like he's been strangled. "Stop it."

"What's wrong?" Castiel asks, innocent and anxious that he's upset Dean – and freakin' hell, yeah, he has upset Dean, though Dean himself has no idea why.

"You don't say that kind of thing to people," Dean says sharply, twisting his head to meet Castiel's eyes. "Especially not... not other guys when you're sharing a bed... shirtless, for God's sake."

"But-"

"You just don't," Dean exclaims. He has no fucking idea why his breath is coming out all short and rough, why all the muscles in his shoulders have bunched up like a piñata ready to burst. There's an itch under his skin he can't reach and he fidgets. "Christ."

"Oh." Castiel's brow furrows. "Then... I don't understand the question."

Dean groans. The one time he actually tries to talk about his feelings, he'd be better off with a brick wall. He tries to remember why he bothers with Castiel at all but he comes up blank. "When I was with Lisa," he makes another attempt, twisting the material of the blanket between his hands, "did you... I mean. Was that what I meant to be doing? Laundry line, picket-fence, blueberry muffins... was that right?"

"I believe a lot of humans spend their whole lives trying to answer that question." All of a sudden Castiel has come over very quiet, very still. He won't meet Dean's eyes.

"Goddamnit, Cas," Dean says in frustration. "I'm not asking if she's The One or whatever... I just wanna know if you think that's what I'm supposed to do, at all – with anyone. Find some girl, get married, kids and a pet dog, bring through cakes on big shiny platters for special occasions – is that it? Is that right?"

For the first time, it is now Castiel who closes in on himself, turning onto his back so he doesn't have to look at Dean anymore. When he speaks, it's so soft that Dean can barely hear him, and he knows that the conversation is over.

Castiel says, "Don't ask me that."

Fine. Whatever. Dean flips away as well, bundles up small under the covers and tries to slip back into sleep. Tries... but fails. He stays awake, silent, for a long time and he hears Castiel breathe slow and steady – not with sleep, but with deep thought – for hours. He wonders briefly what Castiel thinks about before he goes to sleep, and then Dean is gone.


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, they don't talk about it. Dean wakes up first, his nose buried in the soft baby hairs at the back of Castiel's neck. He's comfortable where he is, and curled next to him, Castiel is safe and soft and warm with sleep.

_Castiel._  Shit. He jolts, realising where he is. He props himself up a little to peer around the library and sees that thankfully the Sasquatch is still asleep. This would have been awkward to explain otherwise.

Dean rolls away with the guilty feeling of a one-night stand, and he heads off straight away to the bathroom for a shower and some private attention – because apparently it's not weird enough that he woke up spooning Castiel, he also has to wake up harder than drunken Sodoku.

It's a shit shower, all in all. The water is lukewarm, the soap smells like mouldy cheese, and the image of Castiel glaring at him with sharp, tempestuous eyes last night with his fingers locked tight around Dean's wrists keeps flashing into his head unbidden just when he's getting a good rhythm going. it's more than a little irritating. After ten minutes when the water is really starting to turn icy, he swears, knocks over a bottle of Sam's girly shampoo, and gets out the shower with the grumpy knowledge that he's just not gonna get to jerk off properly today.

Grumbling all the way, Dean heads back downstairs for breakfast. Sam is already up, his bed neatly made, and he can be seen through the kitchen doorway, bustling about with a bowl of healthy Wheaties. Castiel is still hidden in his piled-up blankets, peaceful enough that Dean decides not to be a dick by disturbing him.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean says brightly. He peers into the bread-bag but there's green stuff dotting the loaf and it smells too bad for food-colouring. He makes a face and grabs a bowl to begrudgingly share Sam's Wheaties.

"Yaaaffjg mssjkdfg Bdffgghk," Sam mumbles through a full mouth. It's only eight-thirty and he's already scrolling manically on his laptop – apparently the internet is back. He clicks a button and a dorky little smile creeps up on his face. He types something.

"Ugh, don't make that face," Dean complains, munching cereal straight out of the box. "It's too early for me to deal with smiling. And I have no idea what you just said."

Sam gulps. "I said, you just missed Bobby." He jerks his head sideways through the library to the back door. "He just came through a second ago to say that he was gonna be outside."

"What the hell's he doing outside?" Dean frowns.

"God knows. He had a shovel. I think he's... digging." Sam gets distracted by something on his screen. He types something else, biting his cheek to stop smiling.

"Oh. Of course. As you do." Someone tell him he's a few miles north of Jerritt Canyon gold, Dean thinks. He shakes some more Wheaties into his hand and is surprised when Sam doesn't bitch at him for being  _'gro-oooss_ '. He shakes the box a little louder, cereal rattling, in an attempt to provoke him. Nope... Sam is  _really_ engrossed in his laptop. Dean sets the cereal box back on the counter. "What're you doing anyway?"

"Nothing." Sam clatters away on his keyboard. His expression is embarrassed and a little smug, like he's trying to hide his childish glee.

Dean eyes him. "Really, Sammy?" he asks exasperatedly. "Porn before nine in the morning? At the kitchen table?"

"It's not porn," Sam says in a dignified manner, bitchfacing over the top of his laptop. "I'm just... talking to someone."

"Ooooooh." Dean cackles. "Sammy's got a giiirlfriend." He tastes one Wheatie, screws up his nose in distaste and starts throwing them idly at Sam. Girlfriend makes sense actually... he's been so absorbed in his phone and his computer that Dean was beginning to think he was organising a technophiliac threesome. "Who?"

Sam mumbles something unintelligible.

"Come again?"

This time, the mumble sounds kind of like  _Becky._

"Becky?" Dean echoes. "Becky? Becky, like Becky Rosen,  _Becky_? Crazy Becky?"

"She isn't crazy," Sam says stiffly. There's a hot red flush rising on his cheeks and he looks really uncomfortable. He scratches the back of his neck.

"Oh sure she's not. She just likes to write about us  _boning_  each other!" Dean exclaims. "I mean, Christ, Sam! She's weird and she is definitely at least a little bit cuckoo."

"She's not," Sam whines. "I mean – she doesn't. Not anymore. I asked her not to. And anyway, she said that she already stopped. She writes about different stuff now. Different people, I think."

"Well, at least she's got new victims," Dean mutters. He rolls his eyes, passing a palm over his face to try and contain shouting his sentiments of  _creepy creepy fucking creepy_ at Sam. If Sammy was making friends then Dean wouldn't stop him... it was better than freaking Ruby at least. Dean tuts. "God, and there I was naively thinking you were doing research."

He only says it as a joke – he knows full well that Sam's been working hard – and that's why he is so surprised when Sam brightens, the red on his cheeks extending all the way to his ears and neck, and refuses to meet his eyes.

Dean's eyes narrow. "Sam?"

"Hm?" Sam clears his throat, glances up quickly and then focuses very intently on his laptop screen again.

" _Sam?"_

"What?" Sam speaks a little too defiantly.

"Sam, have you been doing  _any_ research?" Dean asks.

"Well, Becky's been helping with the research-"

"Oh, I'm sure she has," Dean says sardonically. "Researching the colour of your eyes when the light hits them and your favourite sexual position – for her creepy writing, because she's a freaking lunatic!"

"Hey, don't say that about her!" Sam swivels in his chair to face Dean properly, abandoning laptop-Becky on the table. His protectiveness would be sweet and Dean would tease him about it – were it not so  _infuriating_. "Anyway, you could do your own goddamn research, you know!"

"Yeah, I could –  _oh wait._  No, I can't," Dean retorts, scowling. "I've used up every book in Bobby's house and he won't let us leave and you're so damn protective over that laptop, I left it to you. Because, stupidly, I thought that you were actually getting stuff done!" Dean sees Sam open his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts him up, asking, "So, what, are you two like a  _thing_  now?"

Sam shifts. "Well. Not really, but. Yeah. Kind of."

"Man, last time I checked you didn't even like her." Dean can't even really believe it. Tiny, big-toothed Becky. Flailing jumping Becky.

"Yeah, I know... but... that was a while ago." Sam shrugs. He's still bright red. "She sort of grows on you."

"Of course she does. She's one of Chuck's freaking parasites..." Dean lifts his hands, index fingers and thumbs curled over into little pincers that he makes snap in and out like a biting insect. With every silent click of the claws, he intones, " _Becky – is – a – weirdo_."

Suddenly Sam stands up, his chair scraping back violently and knocking against the wall with a hollow sound. "Dean, stop it," he snaps. "Just... stop it, okay? Becky... Becky's nice, okay? And she's been helpful, and she's pretty funny-"

"Well, that's just marvellous. I'll put that on Cas' tombstone then –  _here lies Castiel, poor bastard, but Becky Rosen was pretty funny!"_  Dean mocks, putting on a high stupid voice to imitate Sam, and he throws his hands wide to show Sam the enormity of his stupidity.

Sam's jaw tightens. He's getting that big-eyed, puppy-dog face like Dean is starting to really upset him and he's trying to be a big boy about it. "Becky has been helping me, Dean," he says firmly. "She's got access to the outside world when we don't, and she's had a lot of really good ideas. She came up with a lot of theories – which yeah, may not have been right in the end, but she tried – and she's just... she's  _helping_! What the hell have you been doing, Dean?"

"I've been looking after Cas, that's what!" Dean snaps. He doesn't think that now would be the best time to admit that he spent all of last night spooning Cas to stop him getting a chill but if it helps him win this argument then he might end up spilling. "I've read every damn page of every book, document and newspaper clipping here and there's nothing! Until Bobby gets us off house arrest, it is literally down to you and your internet-surfing to get us out of this and... and freaking  _Becky_ is not helping that, so as far as I care, she can—"

"You know what I think your problem is?" Sam interrupts. "I think you're jealous."

Dean recoils. " _What_?" he says incredulously. "Okay, now you really have been spending too much time with her. Look, let's get this clear – I don't give a rat's ass how much she changes you for the better or whatever but I am not into that incest crap—"

"No, not jealous of her – jealous of  _me_!" Sam takes a deep breath, seeing Dean's expression shut down hard and angry. He bites his lip, evidently realising that he's gone too far now to go back. "You're jealous that I have a life outside of hunting. That I have a world outside of yours."

There is a hot, painful throb somewhere the back of Dean's head; he replies through gritted teeth. "I  _had_ a life outside of hunting and-"

"And what?"

"You know what!" Dean retorts angrily. "I had to find you, I had to get you back!"

Sam holds his arms out wide in some grand gesture of peace and omniscience. "I hate to say this, Dean, but here I am! You've found me. What are you still doing here?"

Words stop solid in Dean's throat. Sam's right. When he left Lisa it was ' _I'll see you soon_ ' and ' _I'll be back as soon as I find Sam'_. That had been months ago... but when he'd found Sammy, Dean had never even told him. Yeah, he'd mentioned that he'd been with Lisa while Sam was gone, but he never so much as implied that he'd said he'd go back.

The thing is that when Dean had said those things, he'd believed they were true. He had really thought that he was going to return to that cute little life. He doesn't know what changed between then and now.

"We have a job to do," Dean says, but he knows that his excuses are feeble.

Sam's eyes are warm and sad, and Dean remembers scrawny-limbed years of giving Sam all the Spaghetti-o's just so that he could avoid that look. "We're always going to have a job to do. As soon as one thing dies, we're out looking for next. When are we gonna be done?"

Dean blinks, taken aback but not surprised. "Do you want to be done?"

"I don't know." Sam shrugs but the movement is light and untroubled. "At the moment I'm just winging it. I mean, it sucks that I can't be with Becky but she gets that I have to do this, but... I like the idea of going home to her."

A home. That's what Lisa and Ben were supposed to be. Constants. He was supposed to go off hunting and then go back there whenever he felt like it, drop by to be loved. It just didn't work. Dean was always stuck on the same needle-point – kill things, stay alive, protect Sammy – and they moved in circles of school, work and daydream futures around him. He had lived with them as a mechanic because it was the only way to be stable and dependable like they needed him to be. And then he left. You never really go home.

Just the thought is making Dean's throat hurt.

Dean imagines Becky old and wrinkled, sitting in a rocking chair with Chuck on the other end of a telephone, waiting for the premonition that will make Chuck write ' _and then Sam came home_ '. She could even wait for the words ' _happily ever after_ ', but somehow Dean didn't think that it was really Chuck's style.

"We can't live two lives at the same time, Sam, and we both know that we can't live  _that_  life," Dean says tiredly. "I mean, we've tried enough times. It just doesn't work. We just have to do what we're meant to do."

"You know, I've always thought of hunting as kind of like being a superhero, and part of what I always believed made superheroes so... so, well,  _super_  – was that they want to save people. They don't just do it because they feel like they have to."

Sam's tone is pointed, trying to make some point or another about Dean continuing to blindly follow in John's footsteps. Dean remembers asking Castiel last night who he was supposed to follow and for the first time he considers following Sam.

"So what, you want me to give up hunting and to just let people die?" Dean says acidly.

"No – I want you to do what you  _want_ to do. If you're gonna keep hunting, I want you to do it because you want to – because you want people to live," Sam is getting exasperated. He pushes a hand roughly backwards through his hair. "I want you to  _want other people_."

"Look, Sam, I want a lot of things-"

"Like what?"

Dean falls short; he can't talk about this, not properly. It's harder to talk to Sam than it is to talk to Castiel, probably because Dean knows that Sam can say just about anything with that quivering lip and giant dewy eyes and Dean will say yes.

"I want bread that's not mouldy, for one thing," Dean starts to say.

" _Dean."_

However, as Sam shouts at Dean, his voice a high-pitched, nasal whine, there's another level to it as well – another voice at the same time. Lower, cracked, desperate. Dean spins.

Castiel is in the doorway, gripping the frame so tightly that his knuckles protrude sharp and white. He stands pale and bare-legged, still only in his crumpled plaid boxers but having thrown on – backwards – an old band shirt. He sways and his knees shiver like he can barely hold his own weight.

As Dean sees him, his brain comes up with two things. The first is that he has an overpowering urge to duck his head shy like a nerdy sixth-grade girl because, hey, he only woke up an hour ago spooning the guy with a hard-on; the second is a series of not so much thoughts as feelings. The feeling of surprise, of worry, of guilt – the feeling of the room passing fast because Dean's on the other side of the room now - the feeling of Dean's T-shirt on Castiel's body, bunched up beneath Dean's fingers as he grabs a fistful to keep Castiel upright – the feeling of weight, warmth, dependency. Castiel slumps on him. His nails grate lightly over Dean's arms as he claws and clings to stand up straight. He has morning breath and his hair sticks up all funny. His eyes are clouded. And when Castiel's head bumps against his neck, Dean feels that where his skin used to be icy cold and almost hypothermic, it's now burning feverish.

"Cas?" Dean grabs him by the shoulders, holding him so tightly that his fingernails dig in, and looks at him at arms'-length. "Are you okay?"

Shaking his head in wild swings that nearly take him to the floor, Castiel tries to stand up by himself. "I... I – Dean, I can't..." His eyes roam blank and bleary through the room, and then close. "I can't see. Dean, I can't see."

"What?!" Dean looks back over his shoulder at Sam and their expressions are identical in horror. Dean wants to yell at Sam to do something but there's nothing either of them can do, so he brings his focus back to Castiel and keeping him upright. "It's okay, Cas, I'm here," he says quietly. "I'm right here, don't worry, okay. Now what do you mean you can't see?"

"It's... I'm somewhat dizzy," Castiel mutters. "And movement... I can't – there's blurs and boxes. Grey. Everything is... everything is mixing together. Dean, I can't see."

He sounds confused and Dean is thankful that he feels too ill to be frightened – because, frankly, Dean is so worried he can't feel his feet. His blood is a deafening roar through his ears and his entire body aches for a way to fix Cas. He knows that all their theories haven't worked so far but he suddenly thinks,  _what if it is the Humbling Spell? What if he doesn't go crazy – what if he just... breaks_?

Dean thinks he might throw up.

"Okay, that's fine," Dean says, and he lets Castiel lean heavily against him. He looks back at Sam again, who is still standing frozen and lost. "Sam, go get Bobby, and tell him that whatever freaky ninja medicine he's been developing had better goddamn work."

Sam nods. He slips carefully the pair in the doorway and practically runs through the library, every step like an awkward gazelle who hasn't quite mastered walking. Over Castiel's head, Dean watches him go and silently urges him to hurry the fuck up because for a skinny dude, Castiel weighs a lot.

"Dean," Castiel mumbles. He rolls weirdly in Dean's arms like his muscles are giving out, falling limply from one side to another. "Dean, I – I'm too hot. It's too hot and I... I want to go back to bed. I'm hot, Dean."

"I know, I know." Dean moves Castiel's weight, slipping one arm around his waist to better support him and to try and move him back to the library. If he can get him back to his bed then at least he can lie somewhere where he won't hurt himself until Sam gets here with Bobby. "Don't worry, we're gonna get you back to bed and you can sleep more in a little while. Okay?"

"Dean?"

"I'm right here," Dean says, his voice warm, soft and reassuring. "It's okay, I'm here and I've got you—"

" _Dean—_ " The word bursts out in a gasp, violent and desperate, and now his voice is full of fear – Dean goes very cold and Dean is clutching at him in a wild, blind panic – because all of a sudden Castiel becomes absolutely rigid, stops breathing, and then crumples to the floor.

So after that point, a lot of things happen, none of which Dean remembers very clearly.

His arm feels like it's getting ripped out of its socket as Castiel nearly drags him down with him—

but he must have done something because Castiel doesn't hit the floor too hard he doesn't hurt himself or maybe he never hit the floor at all because he's an angel and angels do that sometimes don't they—

or maybe something else happens because then he's seizing—

Dean's bent over him, acting as a physical barrier to stop him from hitting the sharp edges of the bookcases and the fallen camp-bed but there's nothing else he can do nothing else he can do—

he's yelling something until his voice cracks and then he's murmuring—

Cas' skin is turning blue—

"It's going to be okay Cas I'm right here don't worry man I'm here just hold on"—

then Bobby—

then—

then things are okay. Dean is crouched but clutching one of the shelves of the bookcase tight in one hand for support, breathing hard.

Goddamnit.

You'd think that after all these years saving Sammy from dangerous shit, Dean would be able to deal better with the all-consuming waves of terror that batter him from every direction until his heart's being crushed in his chest and he can't breathe properly until they're okay – which is even weirder considering it's not Sammy.

Bobby is carefully easing the last few drops of whatever gross dark liquid is in the bottles from the fridge. Dean can't recall when they got the bottle out or when Castiel fell still and unconscious; he can't recall how he got to be kneeling at the dumb feathery bastard's side holding his hand either.

"Right." Bobby sits back on his heels. He twists the cap back onto the metal bottle and sets it down on the floor with a heavy clunk. "He'll come to in a while and then I wanna move him upstairs to my bedroom. It'll be quieter there than down here and he can rest better."

Dean bobs his head awkwardly, still swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. "Okay." He tries to distract himself. "Where's Sammy?"

"I asked him to go to the shed to get a better med-kit," Bobby explains, raising his eyebrows at Dean knowledgably. "I thought that this might happen."

The colour is slowly returning to Castiel's face, though his hands, sprawled out inelegantly all over the place, are still pale and blue-tinged. He's breathing steady, but shallow so that his chest barely moves with every in-and-out. He looks dead and it makes Dean nervous.

Dean thinks about what Sam had been saying before Castiel came in. About having a life outside of hunting. He tries to imagine that, thinking that if they had stopped hunting, then none of this would have happened – Castiel wouldn't be somehow frail and human and having seizures, Sam would be happy and he'd never be tempted by demon blood again, and Dean... well, Dean could pass a single freaking day without worrying about whether someone he cared about was gonna die. In those aspects, he thinks that maybe a normal life would be nice... but he can only picture what he knows, and he can only picture Lisa. The dream sours in his mouth.

With an almighty crash so that people all the way in Nevada will know what's going on, Sam races back into the house, red-faced with exertion. As soon as he sees Castiel lying motionless on the floor, his eyes bug out with concern. "I've got it, I've got it," he exclaims frantically, lifting the first-aid box high. "Is Cas okay? Did he pass out? What happened? Here." Sam thrusts the box into Bobby's hands and continues babbling a mile-a-minute.

"He's fine," Bobby interrupts. "He just had a seizure. And thank you for the box, but I don't think we need it after all."

Sam understands, agreeing emphatically that it was best to get the med-kit just in case. Dean notes Sam's overly-exuberant concern, complete with flailing arms, and thinks that perhaps Sam and Becky have more in common than he had originally thought.

However, as Bobby and Sam get deep into batting back and forth developments on their latest theories, a distraction comes in the form of Castiel stirring slightly.

The three fall immediately silent, watching intently as Castiel's eyelashes flicker and still. He breathes unevenly, like he's struggling up from a great depth. His fingers twitch. Then after a long few moments, his eyes crack open.

Dean shuffles back a little bit, aware that Castiel will probably freak out if he wakes up to Dean leaning ominously over him, but as it is, he is the first thing that Castiel's eyes focus on, if dimly. His lips move faintly, silently. He blinks, his expression a little fuzzy, and then squints. Hands moving in uncoordinated jerks, he tries to sit up, tries to speak again – and this time Dean recognises his own name on Castiel's mouth.

"You okay, man?" Dean reaches out for him, pulling him carefully to sit up – and then sees a familiar, wide-eyed and revolted expression flash across Castiel's face. Dean keeps a hold on where he's gripped Castiel's forearms but twists out of the way, yelping, "He's gonna barf, he's gonna barf—"

Sure enough, Castiel vomits. Not much, but all over Sam and onto Bobby's nice rug. As soon as he's done, he looks up at them with his brow crinkled in such pained apology that Sam forces down his bitch-face.

"Don't worry about it, Cas," Sam says kindly, though he's holding his arms stiffly away from his sides so that no more of him touches the vomit than is necessary. "I... didn't like this shirt anyway."

The three all pitch in to help haul Castiel to his feet. He's still unsteady, so Dean loops an arm around him for support. Bobby and Sam break off, leaving Dean and Castiel swaying together in dizzy circles. Bobby instructs Sam to take the soiled rug to a bathroom to get all the vomit cleaned away – an instruction that Sam is more than happy to obey – and then, once Sam has left, shuffling in bizarre caution to not get gross germs on anything else, Bobby heads away down to the panic room.

"Where are you going?" Dean asks, bewildered.

"That medicine in the fridge is all first and second drafts," Bobby calls over his shoulder. "I've got the real deal downstairs. You take the angel up to the guest room, settle him down and I'll be along in a moment."

Dean grunts in acquiescence. Just his luck. He shifts Castiel's weight on his arm, hitching him closer for better balance, and then, with Castiel gratefully leaning on him, they stumble away to the stairs and beyond.

"You okay? Can you see now?" Dean asks. Castiel seems to be functioning fine, if a little shakily, but if he goes blind again then getting up the stairs will be a real problem, especially as he looks too heavy for a bridal carry, and somehow a fireman's lift seems inappropriate.

"Yes," Castiel mumbles. "I just feel... dizzy." They have to go up the stairs very slowly, two feet on each step, pausing every few seconds for Castiel to get his balance back. Dean keeps an arm tight around his waist and keeps his other hand free in order to occasionally grab Castiel to him when he sways or shivers or looks like he might fall down again.

One flight of stairs feels like Mount Everest and Dean is delighted to see the guest bedroom coming ever closer – that forbidden land which is apparently  _too nice_ for coarse boys like Sam and Dean to sleep in; God forbid they might burp on something. Dean can also hear Sam yelping like a little girl from the bathroom next door as he tries to wash off the vomit and evidently finds out that Dean has used up all the hot water. Dean snickers – but then Castiel's toe snags on uneven carpeting and he nearly takes both of them to the floor. Dean tenses every muscle in his body to keep Castiel upright, and for a few seconds they are left awkwardly clinging to each other's arms and shoulders in some kind of bizarre trust-fall with none of the climax. Relief floods through Dean. He's managed to get Cas this far. "We're nearly there," he grunts, hauling Castiel bodily up the last couple of steps before they can stagger through to the bed.

Dean barely gets Castiel there before his knees give out again; he flops inelegantly onto the frilly florals like cut-string marionette. He lifts his head and squirms a little, trying to adjust himself onto the mattress properly, but he doesn't accomplish much.

"Dude, how many times am I gonna have to tuck you into bed in twenty-four hours?" Dean grumbles. He pushes at Castiel's knees and shoulders in turn to get the entirety of his body onto the bed so that he won't fall off. Castiel struggles at first, hating every second of being an invalid, but when Dean easily bats his flailing, sweaty hands away, he surrenders. Castiel slumps and reluctantly lets Dean rearrange his limbs. At the very least he tries to scowl his way through the degradation but he's blinking heavily now and his brow furrows with the effort of merely staying awake.

Bobby comes in then, balancing a load of dark bottles in his arms. He sets them down next to Castiel and helps to throw a couple of extra blankets over him. "Right," he says, grabbing a bottle once Castiel's heaped high with flannel like the princess and the pea. "Can you drink this on your own or do you want some help?"

The look that Castiel shoots him – if not delivered with eyes half-clouded with sleep and the medicine that Bobby had already given him downstairs – could make angry hellhounds have second thoughts. It isn't directed at Dean, though, so he's allowed to smirk as Castiel grumpily takes the bottle from Bobby, fumbling with the lid before he can drink.

Once Castiel has finished, colour returns almost immediately to his cheeks and fingertips, although he still looks exhausted. Dean takes the empty bottle from him. In an unexpected moment of clarity and determination, their eyes meet; Castiel's are blue and hard, as though to say  _Dean Winchester, you stay right where you are._  Dean nods.

In a series of ever-slowing nods and mumbles, Castiel falls asleep, and Dean isn't one for bedside manner. He stands awkwardly for a moment, checking the rise and fall of the breathing body under the blankets, and feels like a worried mother. He almost wonders idly if he should make some hot tomato soup or tunelessly hum Hey Jude – but then he catches himself. He leaves Bobby to work his magic and goes downstairs.


	8. Chapter 8

When it comes down to it, the only thing required to free them from Bobby's four walls and the stretch of thick white snow for a half mile around is a line scratched diagonally through the witch's spell-circle under the porch, drawn with a pure silver point.

After Castiel falls ill and spends a good two days recuperating in Bobby's sickeningly floral guest bedroom, half-comatose and occasionally vomiting spectacularly, and after Sam and Dean's domestic tiff leaves things strained between them, there is very little to do except settle down to some serious research. Sam finds the trapping spell first – and the way to break it – in a particularly heavy book that had become hidden by the other numerous tomes piled around it.

Ten minutes, one silver pitchfork, and a snatched breath of hopeful optimism later, Sam is wriggling around under the porch like a guilty hobo – and as he calls out wheezily, "There – done! Is there any difference?", the weather starts to change. Within the very instant, the strength of the sun's rays grows stronger, glinting off the leftover snow in bright shards that stings Dean's eyes.

"It looks like it's working," Dean comments, shielding his face with one hand. "You can come out now, Smeagol."

Sam crawls awkwardly out from underneath the porch, hitting his head on the side of the porch twice in the escape. He puts one bare hand down on the snow and looks up at Dean, surprised but delighted, when his fingers glide right through the frost to the hard ground beneath.

"It's melting really fast," he says earnestly, clambering to his feet. He squints out over the land. "I guess we can be outta here within an hour."

Dean chuckles. "Oh, I am way ahead of you." He pulls the keys to the Impala out of his jacket pocket, jingling them idly in one hand as he heads back into the house to pack his stuff back up. As he goes, he laughs aloud, and calls out, mostly to himself, "Man, I am gonna buy  _so much pie_."

"We can stop by the library as well," Sam says excitedly, already starting to gather up piles of papers and books to bring with him. "They must have loads more information that could be useful to us – town histories, old newspaper articles-"

Stopping in his tracks, Dean fixes Sam with his most withering stare. "You really know how to live life on wild side, don'tcha Sammy?" he says sarcastically.

Sam scowls. "I'm just saying that we'll have more resources to work with," he defends. He draws himself up to full height, bristling. "Besides – we can drop by Jody's as well and see if she's back yet."

Dean jabs a finger at Sam. "Pie first."

On this they seem to agree, although they excitedly bicker about what kind of pie they're gonna buy and whether they should get chocolate or strawberry milk to wash it down, because the past couple weeks have served them with enough flat Coke to last a lifetime, but flavoured milk is obviously the beverage of the gods, and they quickly whirl through the contents of assorted duffel-bags and down the backs of couch cushions for wallets and notepads. However, as Castiel moves tentatively to join them, Bobby suddenly throws one arm out in front of him, bringing him to an abrupt half.

"Whoa, now just you wait one second," Bobby interrupts, raising his voice over all of them. "You boys can't take Castiel anywhere."

Dean's eyes snap up to Bobby's, alarmed. He freezes with one hand stretched across Bobby's desk to grab his father's journal where it lies open on a pile of faintly-yellowing local newspapers. Sam blinks, confused. Castiel in particular looks offended; he draws himself upright like a bird rearranging its feathers for a fight, though the effect is somewhat dampened when he's just a skinny, hollow-cheeked human with a nasty cold.

The three answer as one, in the same tone with varying degrees of irritation: "Why not?"

"Just look at him!" Bobby exclaims. All eyes swivel to focus on Castiel, who looks distinctly uncomfortable. "I think you forget sometimes that he's still got a curse on him – a curse that might eventually  _kill_ him. Look at him, he can barely stand without swaying like a little paper doll."

Castiel's jaw tightens; his eyes flash dark and dangerous. "I am not an invalid," he snaps, striding forward so that his trenchcoat flaps, Batman-like, around his knees. "I will not sit here useless while others go to do my dirty work for me. If there's a possibility that  _I_ will die, then  _I_ will fix it."

"Your bravado's adorable – how 'bout I push you right over and we see how much fight you got left in you after that?" Bobby says coldly. "You're in no shape to be going anywhere. I don't care if Sam and Dean clear out without you but you're not leaving this house."

For a second Castiel looks as though he wants to accept Bobby's challenge, stepping forwards with a little of that menacing celestial glint in his narrowed eyes that Dean has seen bearing down on him far too many times. However, Sam moves in between them, holding up his hands, placating.

"Okay, Bobby," Sam says calmly. "Listen. We'll have to get out soon to check out the cabin, because I can't see any other way to be sure about how powerful whatever we're up against is, but we'll stay another day or two until-"

" _What?_ " Dean demands. "What the hell, Sam?"

" _Until_ ," Sam repeats with extra emphasis, giving Dean a Grade-A bitch-face. "Until Cas gets a little better on his feet so that we can take the time off. It's only a couple of days, Dean."

"Only a couple of days?" Dean echoes. He can't believe that someone who was freaking Stanford-educated could be this  _stupid_. He can feel his fingers starting to twitch, and he's getting that whiskey-dry urge to punch the lights out of something. "Sam, he isn't going to just suddenly roll up and get better! Yeah, look at him – he's getting worse day by day and surely that is more reason than any why we've gotta get out there and start having a proper look at what's bringing him down!"

"Alrighty then." Bobby has abandoned Castiel now and his attack has moved to Dean. "Let's just say that you leave to find this witch – and, while we're at it, for the sake of coherency, we'll pretend that the witch hasn't already found  _you_ , that it isn't probably already watching us for the very second you slip my sight. Let's just say that you three drive out of here for whatever goddamned research you think you can do better out there than you can in here and that witch _does_ find you. What do you think it's gonna do when it realises that you idjits are parading around out in the open like the Sisterhood of the Travelling Trenchcoat?"

Dean opens his mouth, ready to make some smart-ass reply but Bobby cuts him right off. Bobby's so belligerent and in his face now that he isn't even being given the space to look over at Castiel or Sam for help.

"I'll tell you what it's gonna do, boy." Bobby jabs a finger at Dean to highlight every other word. "It's gonna trap you someplace else, someplace you won't be able to get any help, and it will  _stick_  and  _gut-_ " –his finger-jabbing pace increases substantially— " _all – three – of – you."_

Lifting his head so that his eyes are level with Bobby, Dean says, "We can cope."

"Hell, you clearly can." Bobby's voice is dripping with sarcasm. "I can see that you're so good at handling yourselves on the big boys' playground when you come crawling back with a disabled angel and no better theory than  _true love's kiss_."

Castiel balks at that, his eyebrows creasing together like he isn't sure whether to be offended or just downright disappointed at having his ideas rejected. The downcast look in those eyes only makes the annoyance in Dean's stomach flare hotter. Sam intervenes before Dean says or does anything else stupid.

"I hate to say this, Dean, because I want to get out of here and do something productive as much as you do, but he's right," Sam says. His tone is too light and cheery, trying – and failing - to elevate the mood. "Here we're safe. The witch will probably be expecting us to try to get out of Dodge the first chance we get. We could be trapped somewhere again, but without Bobby's help and Bobby's books, we'd be stuck." Sam shrugs his shoulders and searches for optimism. "And – and if that spell wasn't just trapping us but isolating us, then maybe my internet works!" He's almost humming with happiness. "I know it'd be great to use the library and all, but I swear there's lots of books we haven't looked at and endless websites. We can get a real sense of what we need to be doing and then-"

"Well, that's just great," Dean cuts in angrily. He swivels to take his anger out on Castiel but the dumb son-of-a-bitch is just gazing at him, stubborn and willing and waiting for Dean's say-so to march defiantly out of there because Castiel would walk on glass to the ends of the earth for Dean. Which, by the way, is a sentiment that usually pisses him off to no end... but today his eyes are so blue and trusting that Dean doesn't have the heart to demand the world of him or shout at him. Instead he says sharply, "With your last dying breath, you let me know how Sammy's freaking  _internet connection_  is going, pal." With that, he pushes past Bobby and stalks out.

"Where are you going?" Sam calls after him, sounding panicked with the thought that Dean might just disappear on them all.

"Going to just... sit in the car. Or is that too dangerous now?" Dean yells back. It's childish, but he slams the door really hard on the way out as well. He knows that he should be more grateful to Bobby for taking them in and helping them, feeding them and giving them endless books and ideas so that they have any semblance of what to do next, but he doesn't really give a rat's ass.

He flings himself into the front seat of the Impala so hard that the whole car rocks from side to side. Once the door is shut, he's happier. The rest of the world is shut out, leaving nothing but the creak of leather as he shifts, the warm familiar scent of oil and gloss. He sometimes talks to his baby when he feels like he has no-one else, times when Sam let him down and times when all Castiel would do was blink with that stupid head-tilt. He doesn't feel like ranting to her now. He doesn't feel like she'd be particularly interested in his problems. He never thought he'd see the day when he lost faith in his baby – but, then again, recently he's been losing faith in a lot of things.

Ten or fifteen minutes pass in silence before Dean realises that he can feel the familiar weight of the Impala's keys in his jacket pocket. He'd grabbed them before they all started arguing about  _what-next_ 's and  _where-now_ 's, and until this point he'd forgotten about them. He fishes them out and jingles them in his palm, deliberating. He could drive out to Sioux Falls real quick, be back within a half hour. He could see if Jody is at home and he could get some actual food for them to eat and he could get some old records from the library; Sam and Bobby can stay here, doing research and looking after Castiel.

Most importantly, though, Dean can just get out of this domestic hellhole for a while, grab some fresh air, have some time to himself. Sure, the others will be pissed off at him but it will be worth it.

Dean pushes the keys into the ignition.

What if something happens to Castiel while he's away? What if he isn't here and something really bad happens? He doesn't even have his cell phone with him; it's lying on Bobby's desk, forgotten next to his backpack. Castiel is getting worse with every passing day - how will he know if something goes wrong, until he gets back and they're already burning his body?

Well, Dean will just have to drive fast. Get back quick.

He turns the keys.

A tiny smile cracks across his lips, hearing his baby roar to life, shaking off her sleepy frost blankets and begging for the road. All that snow has been bad for her and she just wants to get out again. He feels the same.

Dean cranks the car out of park and rumbles carefully through the slush of melted snow out of Singer Salvage. He gets as far as the turning out onto the main road that winds past Bobby's property before he lets the Impala idle and halt.

Something doesn't feel right.

He squints into the rear-view mirror but looks past his own face, looking back at the shape of Bobby's house behind him. The faded white slat fronting, the peeling door, the sloping roof. But there is something about it that seems dark, like a single cloud hanging overhead that was black with rain and bad luck, even though the sun is shining brightly now. And the sun shining so bright and cheery, glinting off the windows... that's what attracts Dean's eyes to one of the windows downstairs where the light – because it must be the light – is picking out a dusty smear so that it looks like a person, dark and faceless, who is watching him.

Of course, it isn't. Bobby's house is pretty much impenetrable to ghosts. It's the safest place to be.

Dean has come too far to back down now. Gulping hard, he tears his eyes away, and stamps down on the accelerator. He guns it down the interstate with the windows rolled down and AC/DC blaring and he doesn't look back.

He stops by Jody's house, climbs the front porch steps and rings the bell three times. No-one answers, not even when he peers through the curtains and raps on the window; she isn't home.

He stops by the police station – not to investigate, because he has left his suit and his badges back at Bobby's – and he asks a cop if they know where the Sheriff has gone. The answer is, again, a resounding no; she's away visiting family, they say, and they don't know anything beyond that. They say that she should be home soon, but the cops he sees are barely out of school, and they exchange nervous glances every couple of sentences – they have no idea. Dean smiles all the same and thanks them for their time.

He stops by the library, flirting with the hot young thing behind the desk until she lets him into the private access room. Wasting no time on reading, he gathers up every single report and newspaper that he can get his hands on, and uses three wide cardboard boxes to cart it all back to the car. He promises he'll bring it all back.

He stops by Costco last of all, to get pie and milk and eggs and bread and whiskey – all the essentials, really – and then he slings the whole kit and caboodle into the Impala's passenger seat and heads back home.

Dean feels good. Really good, actually. The others are all still trapped in that dumb, godforsaken house, but Dean bust out and bought pie and saw an actual woman with actual boobs for the first time in weeks, and everything just feels golden. As he turns off the interstate into Singer Salvage scrapyard, he decides resolutely that he doesn't even care if Sam and Bobby are mad at him; this little excursion has been absolutely worth it.

He is just considering whether he should keep the pie all for himself and gloat when he nearly runs over Sam.

"Jesus!" he yells out as he stomps on the brakes, near-enough shitting himself with the shock it. When the car has screamed to a halt, skewed diagonally across the dirt road down to the Singer house, he leans out the window. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Sam runs around the side of the car to meet Dean, hands curling through the open window. "Dean," he bursts out, breathless like he's been running. "Dean, it's Cas."

In less than five seconds flat, Dean feels all the air get crushed out of his lungs; when he remembers how to breathe, the oxygen that rushes in feels startlingly cold. "Get in the car."

Sam doesn't waste time getting around to the other side of the Impala, instead scrambling for the rear door and swings into the middle of the backseat, pushing into a space available between all the boxes of library files; Dean is already burning rubber before the door is closed.

"It was – I don't know, a seizure? Like, ten minutes ago or something, Cas was coming over all cold and shivery – and then he said he couldn't see again, and then – well, I don't know," Sam is rambling, raking a hand frustratedly back through his hair. "That's the scary part; we have no idea what's happening! But Bobby's just finalising his meds and he sent me out to see if I could find you-"

"My phone's back in the library," Dean interrupts through gritted teeth, stomach pitching even as he realises it.

Shit.  _Shit._ How could he be so fucking  _stupid_? It may only seem like a sniffly cold or a stomach bug, but the simple truth is that Castiel is more than likely  _dying_  from this stupid illness that none of them know how to cure, and instead of being there when Cas needed him, Dean was off hitting on some librarian.  _Christ._

"Well," Sam says, his tone an awkward attempt to reassure Dean as the Impala squeals to a halt on the frosted dirt outside Bobby's house. "I'm pretty sure Bobby has it all under control... I mean, he told me to look for you since I was just, uh, getting in the way—"

Dean looks over at him before he climbs out of the car. "You were flailing, weren't you?" he says, trying for light-heartedness and cheer like his heart isn't hammering in his throat, fear clenching up through his every vein until every step is lead and iron – but his voice is flat and his laugh is hollow. "Did you knock the VCR off the top of the TV again?"

And then Dean's up the steps and knocking on the door, once, twice, three times, because  _why the fuck_ did he forget his goddamn key – but Sam, thankfully, came more prepared. After unlocking the door, Sam doesn't even have time to take his key out of the lock before Dean is shoving past him, shoulder-first, and barging into the library.

"Bobby?" he yells, wheeling around the corner. "Bobby, where's—"

Dean stops in his track, the words catching on his tongue.

There, on the couch, is Castiel: a thin shard of a person, appearing pale and small against the dark bulk of the cushions around him. His head is turned slightly towards the wall, propped up by a bag of frozen peas – Sam, standing just behind Dean, explains quietly that he hit the doorframe on the way down.

Throat choked up tight, Dean takes slow, shaky steps towards Castiel. Now that he's closer, he can see the pink swell of bruising on the far side of Castiel's face; Dean swallows hard. He should have been here to see the warning signs and get Cas somewhere safe. He should have been here to catch him.

Utterly still like some sick parody of Sleeping Beauty, Castiel appears, for all intents purposes, completely unconscious – until Dean's foot creaks on a floorboard. Then Castiel's eyes open slowly, blearily, and try to focus on the face floating in front of him.

"Dean," he slurs, blinking rapidly. "What—"

"Oh – shit." Dean grimaces, his hands balling anxiously into fists at his sides. "Uh. Didn't mean to wake you there. Sorry."

"Where did you..." Castiel tries to sit up, fumbling with the bag of frozen peas as it falls onto his chest. He shakes his head as though trying to shuffle through the chaos inside his head before continuing: "I heard the engine – the Impala's engine – you – where did you—?"

Dean's heart sinks. "No – I didn't," he tries, but it isn't true and Castiel is staring up at him all crumpled and confused and Dean can't do it. Then, somehow, he is crossing the distance between them and sitting carefully in the space beside Castiel's knees. "I mean – I went out for a while, yeah, but... but I'm not going anywhere." Dean swallows, and looks up to meet Castiel's eyes, unwavering. "You know that, right? I'm right here."

And then – well – it's dumb, really – ridiculous, even – but, of their own accord, Dean's fingers lift and push carefully back through Castiel's hair to lift it from where it is plastered, sweat-damp, to his forehead. Castiel's eyes drop to half-mast, like he's ten seconds away from just falling asleep, and he tilts his face unconsciously sideways into the touch, his nose grazing the inside of Dean's wrist.

"Yeah," Castiel mumbles. Even though he is barely awake, there is an absolute certainty to his words – like he still has complete faith in Dean even after all his failures and unnecessarily bitchy comments, like he's been stripped of the power and the glory but is still, somehow, all caught up in  _you deserve to be saved_. His breath ghosts cold over Dean's skin. "I know."


	9. Chapter 9

There's nothing on TV.

Dean has seen every episode of every show going, and if he had ever thought that he'd never get tired of Dr. Sexy... well, think again. My Little Pony is on, which Dean supposes Sam might like, but he's outside, traipsing around the scrap-metal mountains of Singer Salvage in an attempt to find better a phone signal to call Becky about something to do with old Swedish hex-bags. At least Sam's being useful, though Dean has seen Sam wander past the window at least three times shouting "WHAT? Sorry – you'll have to – Becky – I said you'll HAVE TO SPEAK UP." Whatever.

Dean flips the channel. Boring, boring... is that Casablanca? He'd been recently telling Castiel about this film, saying he'd like it because it's romantic and war and melodrama, like those damn musicals – but the angel in question is currently with Bobby having his meds. He slept most of the day and night yesterday, doped up on whatever juice Bobby's pumping into his system, and since waking up this morning, almost twenty-four hours since his seizure, he's been upstairs getting his second dose.

Making a mental note to let Castiel know that Casablanca was on, Dean flips past it. Boring, boring... then Star Wars comes on, and it must be Dean's lucky day because it's The Empire Strikes Back – his favourite. However, it's at the slow part when Han and Leia are arguing about their feelings...

-and out of nowhere, caught somewhere between wishing he had a lightsaber and fantasising about Leia in that leather bikini thing, Dean finds himself remembering Lisa.

Sam darts past the window again. "Sorry, what? I didn't get that," he yells, clamping his hands over his ears. "Did you say  _cheese soufflé?_ "

Recently Sam has become more domestic – and Dean's not talking about the half-day that's passed since he found out about Becky. When Dean thinks hard about the signs, it's been happening slowly for months. He cooks sometimes to give them all a break from crappy takeaways, which is a nice sentiment even if it's all healthy stuff that tastes like horse manure. Sam's been theorising more too... possibly out of guilt after their confrontation over breakfast yesterday morning, but regardless, Dean begrudgingly admits that Becky has had some pretty good ideas. She found a load of old medieval practices that were used to test witches before they were burned, and once she gets her hands on exactly how to do them, they're going to test Castiel to see if it has any effect on his condition. Dean wishes he'd thought of it but, you know. Gotta give the girl some credit.

Sam talks to her every morning, either by phone or some weird internet chat thing. They speak again throughout the day if there's anything important they've found out, and now that Dean knows what he's looking for, he sees the evidence of their relationship everywhere - in the girly books that Sam reads in his free time; in the caller-specific rattle of a cell phone on wooden surfaces; in the little anecdotes that 'somebody told me'. Dean traces the relationship back to the last time they saw Becky. They had dropped by to visit Chuck six months ago, chasing up something about a shifter pretending to be a psychotic Easter Bunny, and of course Becky had tagged along.

Dean thinks that one day he'll be tagging along.

It is this idea – the idea of little dorky Sammy up and leaving him while he continues to stupidly follow dad's dead-end road – that causes him to dig in his pocket for his cell phone.

The first surprise is that she is not listed under  _L_ , for Lisa, but under  _B,_ for Braeden family.

The second surprise is that when he calls, the number no longer exists; he is redirected to the Braeden's new number. They've moved house again.  _So soon?_  Dean almost thinks – but a lot happens in a year and a half.

There is no connection for a few seconds. Dean is impatient and almost hangs up. Then – click – a rustle – and " _hello?_ ", tinny on the other end as though separated by much more than distance and wire.

"Hey, Lisa!" Dean says brightly.

"Hello," Lisa repeats. Her voice is warm but wary. She pauses before adding, "I'm sorry, who is this?"

"It's me," he says. He grabs the TV remote and mutes a stormtrooper fight scene. "Uh. Dean."

"Dean?" Lisa echoes incredulously. " _Dean_  – oh, wow. Yeah, of course. Sorry. I didn't recognise your voice for a second. Uh. Well. Hi. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just... you know. Wanted to know how you were." Dean stands, scratching his head. "So... how are you?"

"Right, yeah. Uh. I'm good, thanks. How are you?"

"I'm good too." He idly wanders around the room as he  _um_ 's and  _ah_ 's his way through polite chit-chat. "I'm just at Bobby's at the moment. Working a case, you know."

"Oh. Okay." Lisa hesitates before going in for the kill. "Have you found Sam yet?"

Dean has no idea why he says it. "No," he lies. Maybe he's trying to save face, keep in her good books. Maybe he just doesn't want to give up his only excuse for not going back to her. "Not yet."

"Huh. Well, er. Good luck, I guess..." she tails off; she seems distracted by something that is happening on her end. "So what's the case?"

"A witch spell," Dean explains. "It's really... fascinating stuff. But uh, Cas got hurt by it so we're looking for a way around it now. It shouldn't take long but-"

"Cassie?"

"No. Castiel." He chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Did you ever meet him?" It seems odd that Lisa doesn't know Castiel, who is such a big part of his life now. Then again, he supposes that creepy celestial voyeurism is sort of a one-way road. "Never mind, then. How's Ben?"

"He's out – a friend is taking him to baseball practice."

Finding the dusty file in his head tilted ' _the Braedens'_ , Dean runs through his old schedule. "Doesn't Ben have baseball on Tuesdays?" he asks, confused.

"No, he's on a different team now," Lisa corrects. "He moved up a couple months ago. So, Thursdays. Anyway." She clears her throat. "So what's going on with the search for Sam, then?"

"Uh." Dean's palms are sweaty like the little kid who barfed and didn't tell anyone. His skin itches. "Well. You know."

Lisa gives a short and somewhat awkward laugh. "No, I don't," she reminds him gently. "Are you any closer to finding him, or...?"

Dean closes his eyes, passes a weary hand over his face. Swallows a couple of times. "We found him," he says quietly. "Sam. I don't why I said – I mean, I'm not still looking for him. We found Sam in October."

"October?"

The timbre of her voice is not angry, and Dean guesses that October must sound pretty reasonable to her. It's only late November now and even if everything has changed between them, Dean still knows – or knew – Lisa well enough to understand how her mind works. A month or so is not too long for a person to have forgotten to get back into contact. That's okay. That makes sense.

He gulps again and amends, "Last October."

"Huh." She still does not sound angry. "Okay."

A pregnant hush stretches and thickens between them, leaving nothing on the line but awkward, heavy breathing. Dean half-wishes he could see Lisa's face to gauge some reaction; half-wishes he could crawl into a small hole and forget all about her. He is getting the sense that they'd reached the point in the conversation where he should start desperately grovelling for forgiveness, but he just isn't feeling it. Lisa doesn't seem to expect anything from him and... well, while forgiveness sounds better than ruined relations, Dean isn't sure what he wants beyond that.

"Lisa, I'm sorry-" he starts.

"Don't worry about it," she interrupts brusquely. "Look, I never really believed you were coming back, to be honest. When you left, I kind of knew that was it. End of our story."

Dean has no idea what to say to that.  _I will come back? I'm sorry? Please forget I ever existed?_  He goes for, "Okay", which sounds pathetic even to his ears. Then, as a guilty after-thought, he adds, "What about Ben?"

Lisa huffs out her breath; it's a sound that sounds harsh and angry over the phone. "Ben," she says slowly, thoughtfully, "is coming home from baseball soon – and I have to finish a whole cake for his school fund-raiser before he gets back. So, on that note, I'm sorry, Dean, but I have to go."

He nods, rubbing the back of his head uncertainly. "Right. Yeah, sure. Okay."

"It was good to hear from you," Lisa says. Her voice is faint, as though she's already started pulling the phone away from her ear. "Good luck with whatever it is you're doing. Okay. Bye, Dean."

"Yeah. Thanks," Dean is babbling. "It was good to hear from you too – that you're okay, I mean. And Ben. Bye Lisa. Okay – Lisa? Hello? Right. Bye." He feels stupid when he realises that she's long gone and he is listening to the echoing hum of the dial-tone, questions about Ben and Lisa and that whole life still poised on his numb tongue.

He's there for a couple more seconds, letting himself be temporarily lost in excessive self-pity and a sense of ' _well... now what?_ '. Then he sighs, slides his cell phone back into his jeans pocket and grabs the TV remote from Bobby's desk – The Empire Strikes Back is coming up to that scene with the crazy space worm thing **.** A blur of peripheral movement catches Dean's eye. He looks up, startled, and sees Castiel skulking uncertainly in the hallway.

"Hey, Cas," he calls, relief washing warm over him at the sight of Castiel, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, albeit still looking sleepy. Healthy, though – aside from the purple swell of bruising on one side of his face after his last collapse. "You okay?"

Castiel doesn't come closer. He hovers in the doorway, fingers bumping awkwardly against the wood of the doorframe. He doesn't make eye contact. "Yes," he says quietly.

With Castiel here – even being socially challenged in the corner – Dean feels a little better. He flops down heavily onto the couch and clicks through the channels on the TV. "Casablanca's on, by the way," he tells him. "Do you wanna watch?"

Castiel fidgets at the door. His eyes flicker from Dean's face to the TV screen to the floor and back again. After a handful of stilted seconds, he replies, "No."

Dean frowns. Just a few days ago, Castiel had been really interested in what Dean had described of the film. Maybe he still doesn't feel very well – but the careful blankness of his face suggests it's more than that. However, before Dean can speculate further, Castiel drags his gaze away and crosses the room to rifle through one of the bookcases. He remains there for quite some time, the line of his back tense beneath the thin cotton of his borrowed T-shirt.

Grumbling to himself under his breath, Dean turns his attention back to Star Wars. He hopes that Castiel is having a great time looking through those books near-indefinitely because he seems to be having a great time being generally distracting. First it's the rustle and shuffle of leather and paper over wood; then it's the creak of floorboards under his bare feet as he stretches and twists to reach the different high shelves; then, with sleeves rolled up, it's the shift of muscles under his skin. It irritates Dean. He starts absent-mindedly balling up clumps of feathers come loose from pillows and cushions, and he throws them at Castiel's back.

At first Castiel determinedly ignores him. Then the annoyed drumming of tan, twitchy fingers and the little shakes, attempting to displace feathers caught in his flyaway hair, gives him away. Dean runs out of feathers. He upgrades to dimes. Then nickels. It's only once Dean is running low on small change and moves up to throwing a pen, letting it bounce neatly off the back of his head, that Castiel reacts.

Castiel turns, jaw locked. "What do you want?" he asks tightly.

"I'm bored," Dean replies airily and smirks. He loves pissing Castiel off. With a teasing eyebrow wiggle, he taunts, "So entertain me."

A muscle jumps under the taut skin of Castiel's throat. He stares, eyes narrowed sharply, his lips pressed in a thin line. He does not speak, and there's something in the silent, cold intensity of that stare that sends a shiver down Dean's spine. Dean wants to make a wisecrack but he can't think of anything to say. His mouth is very dry. Castiel slowly tips his head to one side, as always, but it's not right. It looks off. Then, finally, he speaks.

"Entertain you?" he repeats, his voice low, rougher than usual.

Dean swallows. He doesn't know why he can't look away – or why he has just remembered that he's said the same thing to a lot of girls, with a lot of different results.  _Entertain me. Surprise me. Bite me._  Dean is still sitting on the couch, frozen.

Castiel takes a few slow steps closer and the first time in a long time, he's menacing. Dean subconsciously pushes himself back into the couch cushions, not wanting to be on the receiving end of whatever is going to be the consequence of Castiel's fury – and yet at the same time he's tipping his head back, every beat of blood through his veins telling him not to break, not to look away, because this is important. There's a growing roar low in his stomach, like pain or want or hunger, and it stems from the way Castiel repeats, one more time, " _Entertain you_?"

Cold air sweeps through the room. The lightbulb in the desk-lamp blows out, glass burying itself in the soft material of the couch. The shutters bang – and in a split-second that could be missed between one blink and another, there is a flash of brightness, or rather of a shadow's absence, where two great, dark, hulking shapes uncurl and fill the room. Dean notices none of this. He's captivated instead by the angry line of Castiel's jaw, the heat of his mouth beyond his parted lips.

"I don't know at what point I became your  _toy_ , Dean," Castiel growls. He is in Dean's personal space now, standing over him on the couch. "At exactly what moment did you decide that my Grace, my wings, my  _power_  – were worth nothing to you but conveniences for your use and advantage? At what point did you decide I was  _yours_?"

Words build and stick on Dean's tongue. He opens his mouth but remains speechless. He swallows again, hard, but there's a knot in his throat that can't be dissolved. There's a pounding in his head, under his skin, and his fingertips itch to take.

"I am not  _yours_ ," Castiel's lips curls, baring teeth in a gesture that is all at once very human and impossibly alien. "I am not yours to be leashed and humbled – don't forget that you are made in  _our_ image, not the other way around. You are but a dull flesh copy of what I was and what I  _will be_." He steps closer still, and Dean has no idea what Castiel means by what he  _will be_ , because at the moment Dean can only think that imminently he  _will be_  irrevocably in Dean's personal space and he  _will be_ so close that he can already feel the warmth radiating from Castiel's body where their legs are nearly touching and Dean  _will be_ on the verge of doing something stupid. He's lost in his own head. Lost in the enraged hitch of Castiel's breath, his dry lips, the flash of wide dark eyes down the length of his body. Dean won't blink. Without thinking, he wets his lips; he watches Castiel follow the movement.

"Remember that I could crush you," Castiel says, so very quietly that Dean has to strain to hear, and the soft gravelly rasp of it raises the baby hairs on the back of his neck. "Remember that I have destroyed entire cities for less than the annoyance you cause in me. Remember that – because I'm powerful, and so far, Dean, I've been kind."

Dean doesn't respond, doesn't even nod. He's distracted.

Because the next time that Castiel's eyes slowly sweep up and down Dean's body, they flash back up to his face – black.

Just like that, the moment is gone.

Dean's blood runs icy. "Cas?" his voice is a croak, trapped somewhere deep in his chest where it still struggling past a throbbing ache for something more. " _Cas_?"

Castiel is staring at him – dark demon's eyes in Jimmy Novak's face. The smallest line pulls down between his eyebrows like there's something very complicated that he has almost understood. He grows very still. "Dean?" he asks, his voice small.

"Cas?" Dean asks again. He is still withdrawn into the back of the couch, unmoving with a mixture of fear and bewilderment. "Is that you – or...?"

"Dean," Castiel says again as soon as he hears Dean, his tone thick with relief and fear that can't be faked by any demon, no matter how smart. "Dean, I can't see. Dean."

This is Castiel. Dean knows it without a shadow of a doubt. He has years and years of knowledge about demons stored inside his head – don't trust Ruby; don't trust Crowley; demons are worthless bags of shit and they will lie their way into or out of any situation; black eyes means gank-and-run – but this is Castiel. He can tell from the crease of his brow, the quiver in his voice in spite of his stoic expression, the way his hands grope blindly for Dean knowing that no matter what happens, no matter what is wrong with him, Dean will be there. Dean is always there.

Dean stands up quickly and grabs Castiel, wrapping his hands around his upper arms as he stumbles backwards. "Whoa, don't collapse on me, dude. What the hell is going on? Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Castiel mutters, swaying. "What happened? Where am I?"

"Bobby's house, in the library." Dean holds him steady, but twists around sideways and yells, " _Sam!"_  He guides Castiel to sit down on the couch. "Hey, sit down. There you go. I think you just blacked out for a second. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I... I came downstairs." Castiel's eyes close for a second, exhausted, and when they open again, he's normal. Big blue eyes, spiky lashes, wide pupils. He takes another few seconds to focus and then he looks up at Dean, still standing over him. "Then... I'm unsure."

"Okay. Don't worry, man. We're gonna sort you out." Dean claps a hand awkwardly onto Castiel's shoulder, but drops away almost immediately; the neck of Castiel's shirt has slipped low on his collarbone and the warmth of skin on skin is bringing back the image of Castiel leaning over him, eyes flashing, lips parted. Dean blocks that out. He peers through the window behind the couch instead, craning his neck to try and see Sam outside. "Sam," he calls again, and he stretches to rap his knuckles on the glass. " _Sam,_ goddamnit!"

At long last, Sam's attention is caught. He frowns at Dean, but there must be something urgent in Dean's face that makes him realise the importance of what's going on in the library – urgency in Dean's face, or maybe just the angry rattling on the window and mouthing obscenities. Whatever works.

Sam nods and heads for the back door, babbling something into his phone. Dean pushes himself off the window-frame, rocking back onto the balls of his feet. He looks down at Castiel. The poor bastard is sitting neat and quiet, knees together, gazing at the floor with a troubled expression crumpling his features. Dean wants to comfort him but he can't think of anything to say. He has a vague idea that maybe he doesn't need to speak at all – maybe he could just touch – but that's ten kinds of ridiculous. He walks across the room to meet Sam in the hallway.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks as soon as he gets in from the cold. "Is it Cas? Is he okay?"

Dean mimes for Sam to talk more quietly, jerking his head in the direction of where Castiel is moping on the couch. He steps closer and pauses, wondering how to say this. He makes his most sardonically pensive face before saying in a low voice, "Well, Sam, let's start with how  _he's a demon._ "

" _What?"_ Sam splutters. "What the hell do you mean, he's a demon?"

"Man, I don't know!" Dean hisses, his shoulders rising defensively. "Cas came in, he seemed a little weird but you know, whatever, and then I was being a jackass like always and... and he went crazy. He had some kinda rage black-out, went all Linda Blair on me – and then his eyes went black. He doesn't remember a thing since coming downstairs."

Sam exhales in a slow huff, thoughtful. "Crap," he says eventually. "Are you sure?"

"Am I – Sam, yes, I'm  _freaking sure_ ," Dean snaps. "His eyes went black, for Christ's sake – not to mention that the last time I saw him that angry, he was beating the shit out of me in a back alley for agreeing to be Michael's vessel. The guy is seriously fucked up. So?" he prompts after a few seconds, realising that Sam is getting lost in his own thoughts. "Have you or Little Miss Sunshine got any theories that could include  _this_?"

"I don't know, man," Sam admits. "We can't actually exorcise him, obviously - in case he actually  _is_ a demon somehow and we end up sending him to the Pit for real. I guess we could try him for sulphur... throw some salt and holy water at him, but that seems a little like torture."

Suddenly, Sam's voice trails off. He gets a very intent look on his face and he is staring blankly at the wall. Dean can almost hear the cogs ticking inside his head. Well, at least they've got a dork on hand when they need one. Dean waves a hand in front of him; Sam jolts back to reality.

"The Humbling Spell," he announces.

"What?" Dean demands. "I thought we were on the same page here. He's a demon now, remember?"

"No, I think it's still the Humbling Spell," Sam explains. "It still makes the most sense with all the evidence we've had, plus the fact that Bobby's witch medicine is working – even if a demon was involved somehow to mess with us about the fake rituals and the incorrect incantations, I think it's still witchcraft. So get this," Sam pauses, and as always with those words, Dean knows that shit is about to seriously go down. "A Humbling Spell takes the arrogant down a notch, right? We always assumed that the step below angels was humanity, but that's pretty stupid – we're nowhere near as powerful. So what if Cas hasn't been downplayed to being a human? What if the step below an angel is a demon?"

Dean groans. "Right, 'cause that's just great," he says sarcastically. "As a human, the worst he could do was PMS and get pneumonia. Now we're up against a moody menopausal Satan hybrid. Perfect."

"We're not up against anything, Dean, because he isn't our enemy," Sam points out. He glides a hand through his long, girly hair and shrugs clumsily. "We just have to work out how to fix him."

"Okay. Your call, Batman. What do we do?" Dean asks as they begin slowly moving back towards the library.

"Well, Becky and I were putting together a load of tests that we could put Cas through to see if he's actual under the influence of a spell or if it's something else entirely," Sam says, already getting his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call her – you get Bobby. The sooner we get this sorted out, the better."

Dean nods, happy to have something to do. As Sam retreats outside to get the signal to call his new research-bitch, Dean heads back down the corridor, aiming for the stairs down to the basement. He is distracted, however, as he passes the doorway back into the library.

The sight of Castiel sitting on the couch catches his eye. He's perched awkwardly on the very edge of the seat, shoulders curled over so that he almost folds into himself. It's a stark contrast to the terrifyingly powerful being that filled the room with electricity and fear less than five minutes ago; now he has never looked so small or so lost. Dean feels he should go and try to make him feel better, but the memory of Castiel's eyes raking hungrily over his body is still battering the walls of his skull, and it unsettles him. He continues past the library before Castiel feels that he is being watched and does anything weird like eye contact. If Castiel is lost then he can damn well find himself because Dean isn't going to do it for him.


	10. Chapter 10

It's hard to get any real facts from the tests that they do. Castiel steps over the edges of a Devil's Trap, easy, but he flinches at holy water and throws up after eating a load of rock-salt – though, to be fair, Dean would probably vomit too if he had to swallow that much salt. There are no traces of sulphur on his skin, and while Bobby thinks that they should test Castiel for any remaining traces of his Grace, they are all unwilling to make him try to cross a circle of holy fire. After those experiments are inconclusive, they have Becky on speaker-phone excitedly leading them through some basic witchcraft.

To be honest, the only thing that Dean hates more than witchcraft is listening to his baby brother cyber-flirting with his girlfriend. It's great that he's finally getting laid and all, but... really? And all this time, Castiel is standing hunched with worry and shame at what he seems to be becoming, and letting the hunters play with his limbs.

"I have no idea, then," Becky finally admits after Sam reels off the results back to her. "It says that the way that he's reacting to those tests indicates that he is still under some kind of spell, so I guess he's just under the Humbling Spell."

"But if it's really just a spell, then surely we don't have to worry about him becoming an actual demon," Sam insisted. "Right? I mean, he'll just  _think_ he's a demon... but then that doesn't explain his eyes turning black. It doesn't explain anything."

Dean shrugs. "The medicine that Bobby's been giving him seems to be working just fine. If we keep him on that, then we can at least stop him from going all Exorcist on our asses."

"What medicine?" Becky asks, the curiosity in her voice accompanied by a deafening crackle of phone-line static. "I haven't found anything yet about witchcraft palliatives..."

"Just something I mixed up," Bobby says gruffly. "A lot of exotic ingredients in a blender... I could tell you the recipe, but I'd have to kill you."

Becky giggles. "I never pegged you for the secretive type, Mr. Singer," she babbles. "Though, of course, I guess you have kept your secrets before – about that time when you knew where John was and wouldn't tell the boys-"

Sam whines indignantly and grabs the phone from where it's balanced on the arm of the couch. His indignant words are lost in a garble of laughter and justifications, and it's all so sickly sweet that Dean thinks he might barf. Stupid, happy Sam.

Dean jams his hands deep into his pockets and looks around expectantly at Bobby and Castiel. "Now what?" he asks. "Keep Castiel drugged on his magic juice and hope he doesn't go possessing anyone?"

"I am right here, Dean," Castiel snaps.

"Alright, keep your panties on," Dean says. "I'm just saying that, yeah, we all freaking hope that it's just an illusion brought on by a spell, but truth is that we have no clue what to expect from you!"

Castiel's lips clamp down tight and angry. For a second, Dean thinks that he might go into another rage-blackout. However, Castiel's passive; he just twists away to stare stonily at the wall. Bobby's gaze flickers suspiciously between them, but then he shakes his head and gives Dean a sharp look like  _I am not getting involved with your PMS-ing angel._

Dean wonders, same as Castiel did, at what point everyone decided that they belonged to each like husband and freaking wife.

And just like that, suddenly the room is empty but for the two of them. At the back of his head, Dean can hear Bobby clattering about in the kitchen, brewing some coffee, and he can hear Sam chattering to Becky in the hallway. He glances around the room a couple of times before finally coming to rest on Castiel, who is standing still and quiet in front of him. He's skinnier than ever, draped in Dean's too-big clothes so that they fall over his shoulders and hips like crumpled curtains.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. His voice sounds rough and unsympathetic, and that suits him just fine. He doesn't do the whole  _feelings_ thing like Sam does. "What I said... I wasn't just being a jackass, you know. It's just – well, it's just. It's true."

"Yes." He nods shortly.

Tapping his foot anxiously, Dean hesitates before asking, "So... er, you okay?"

"Yes."

Castiel used to be stone, apathy and purpose – before disobedience, before the Winchesters. He is the same now as he was before, and Dean plays idly with the thought that he might never have changed at all.

"We're gonna fix you," Dean says abruptly. "You know that, right? You're gonna be fine." He takes a couple steps forwards so he can peer sideways at Castiel's expression, but he can't find anything there. His face is blank and smooth; his blue eyes, when they temporarily flash over to meet Dean's, are polite and distant. There doesn't seem to be any point in pursuing emotion in the dumb bastard. He huffs crossly and leaves the room. He doesn't know where he's going, but then he never does and it's never stopped him before. It's just that things feel different now.

Castiel feels different now.

* * *

The bad mood hanging over the Singer house does not dissipate over the next few days. Castiel does not speak unless directly spoken to, and even then sometimes he deliberately ignores Dean if he thinks he can get away with it. He always answers Sam. This leaves Dean with a lot of time alone with his thoughts when he's not avoiding Castiel's sulking and trying to drone out gross cell-phone conversations between Sam and Becky. He tries very hard not to think about the life that Sam is setting out for himself even as he researches with Becky.

It only takes two days before he snaps and calls Lisa again.

She picks up on the fourth ring and this time she recognises his voice. "Oh, Dean," she exclaims a little awkwardly. "Hi. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just... well, I said I was getting back into contact, so... yeah."  _Well,_  he thinks,  _at least this conversation isn't uncomfortable for everyone involved, or anything._  "How are you anyway?"

"I'm okay."

She tells him that they moved house and then launches into a story about a crazy woman over the road who finds her flowerbeds insulting or something. Her voice is unenthusiastic, like she's told this story already and she told it to someone whose appreciation of it she cared more about. They both laugh awkward, tinny laughs at the end.

Dean tells her about Sam's relationship with Becky, but Lisa has never met Becky and has only ever caught fleeting glimpses of Sam, from that one time they had that case of the changeling children. Lisa murmurs along with him, as social convention implies is necessary, and makes absent-minded sympathy noises when he complains about their gooey feelings.

Lisa tells him about the reason they moved house – Ben moved up to middle school and they wanted to move to a better area so that he could go to a better school – but won't directly talk about Ben either. She does say that he's not at home, but from her tone Dean suspects that even if Ben was at home, she would not have passed the phone over so that they could chat.

Finally, Lisa gives up pretending to be interested in their small-talk. She sighs heavily. "Look, I need to go... I'm sorry that I always end up cutting these conversations so short but it's just that Keith will be home soon with Ben from his extra-curricular Latin classes, and I really need to get this beef stroganoff cooking before they get back," she says distractedly. "It's been lovely talking to you, though."

He's stupefied. There are a thousand things going through his head – who's Keith? Why is he taking Ben to places? Is he like a chauffeur or like a father? Since when does Ben take Latin? All of these swirl and spike in his brain, sounding aggressive and bitter and accusatory in his throat, and he's just lucky that the only question he gets out is to demand, "What the fuck is beef stroganoff?"

" _Dean_ ," Lisa says sharply. "I don't have time for this. I have to go – I'm sorry. I'll talk to you... whenever. I don't know. Bye."

"Lisa-"

"Good _bye_ , Dean," she says pointedly. The click and beep of her hanging up at her end is as harsh a rejection as a slap in the face.

Dean, petty as ever, feels like bitching. He wants to call her a whore behind her back or maybe just mope in the kitchen with some whiskey because boo-hoo, Little Miss Perfect doesn't want him. He's too old for that, fortunately, so what he does instead is what gets Castiel speaking properly to him for the first time in days.

It's because of Castiel's previous silent treatment that Dean is surprised when he creeps up behind him, silent and terrifying as usual, and asks tentatively, "What are you doing?"

At the time, Dean is on his hands and knees, one arm deep under a dusty cabinet and swiping blindly for a book that he'd knocked down the back – and the sound of Castiel's voice startles him into banging his head on the handle of the cabinet drawers above him. He swears loudly and at length before shuffling back to glare at the offending figure above him. "What the hell do you want?"

Castiel frowns. He does not explain but merely repeats himself: "What are you doing?"

"I dropped a book down the back of the cabinet." Dean withdraws his arm and bends low to the floorboards so that he can peer underneath for where it has gone.

"That seems counter-productive."

Dean scoops out a handful of dust-bunnies and throws it at Castiel, but they disintegrate in the air and drift feebly down to his feet. "Thank you, Doctor Smart-ass," Dean says sarcastically. "It was an accident, you idiot – now help me get it out again."

Thankfully, Castiel crouches beside Dean and they form a team; Dean lifts the front two legs of the cabinet while Castiel slides his thinner arms into the space created to retrieve the book. Once it has been safely recovered, Castiel lovingly wipes the dust from the cover and then peeks curiously up at Dean. "You want to learn to cook?"

A hot flush flares up on Dean's neck, embarrassed. He takes the book out of Castiel's hand and flips carelessly through the pages. Even as he casually says "I thought we'd have beef stroganoff for dinner", he cringes at how pathetically domestic he sounds.

"What's beef stroganoff?" Castiel asks.

"...I don't know."

Despite the tiny crease in his brow which is indicative of how odd he finds Dean's sudden desire to master some fancy-schmancy cuisine, he doesn't make any comments. He stands quietly next to Dean as he searches through the book, and when Dean finally finds the right recipe, he offers to help.

* * *

It takes four days before Dean's bad mood hits breaking point.

A lot of things have been irritating him. It's well into December now, and under the assumption that their situation is not going to be remedied any time soon, Sam has thrown himself into decorating Bobby's house for Christmas, leaving baubles and tinsel strewn everywhere for Dean to trip over and break. Castiel is still mostly ignoring him, and Bobby, the only semi-sane one, is always locked away downstairs in his damn panic room.

Dean, through snapping at people and sulking in the Impala, has built himself up to boiling point. He's tired of listening to Sam's so-far freaking successful attempts to live a normal life, tired of Castiel's quiet distance, tired of bouncing off the same four walls wondering what he's supposed to be doing with his time, now or ever. He's cabin-fever crazy.

This particular dark, damp afternoon, Dean stalks outside to see if he can take out any of his anger in trying to fix up the Impala; his baby is probably crapped up with frost and frozen oil. However, as he descends the steps outside, he sees Castiel perched high on an empty oil-drum, staring silently into the middle-distance. Even on Bobby's medicine, he looks pale and drawn, and his complexion is presumably not helped at all by the fact that he is sitting outside in a short-sleeved cotton T-shirt and sweatpants when outside it's about ten degrees Fahrenheit.

Dean thinks,  _what the hell is he doing – he's gonna get sick—_

And then he thinks,  _Jesus Christ, I have told him so many times about needing to look after himself—_

And then he thinks _, well, he can fuck himself – why do I even give a shit about any of this? I'm not his mother—_

And then he's just plain mad and he marches over to the dumb bastard, jaw clenched. He has a lot of words in his head but when he actually gets there, he can't think of anything to say.

Castiel notices him and looks down, eyes mild, polite, detached. He is so fucking  _calm_ and  _collected_ and what the fuck happened to him – Castiel used to be all intensity and soul-searching, getting right up into Dean's head like he owned the place, and now, what, he's decided he doesn't like it or something? He's backed off, retreated into his own little goofy head, and now it's like Dean's own thoughts rattle in the space and don't fill the hollow left behind.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel says quietly. After a moment's deliberation, he hops down from the barrel and stands in front of Dean. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah, just freaking peachy," Dean snaps. "Just twirling pirouettes through the backyard – why, how are you?"

This is when Castiel would normally frown and make some stupid angel comment about all the human things he doesn't understand. However, he's blank as he states the obvious: "You're angry."

There are many ways that Dean could answer him.  _No shit Sherlock. Thank you Captain Obvious. Well aren't you the brightest in your class? Of course I'm fucking angry._ He has so many options; he doesn't know why he says this instead. "Hit me."

Castiel blinks at him owlishly, bewildered. He doesn't answer.

It's probably for a load of deep-rooted psychological issues that Dean has, Becky would probably say. She would analyse the shit of him and say that he was emotionally stunted, that he didn't know how to process his feelings, that the only way he knew to deal with things was drinking and fight. It's true to some extent. He knows how to deal with fist-fights. If Castiel's angry at him for some reason, then he can damn well show it like a normal person rather than bottling it all up like a moody teenage girl.

"Hit me," Dean repeats, more forcefully this time. "You're in a bad mood, I'm in a bad mood – let's Fight Club it out. Come on. Hit me."

Castiel tips his head slowly to one side, considering Dean's words. "No."

"For Christ's sake," Dean snarls. "What is your problem? So one day you're threatening to kick the shit out of me and use my body as a piñata and now you're all holier-than-thou, I-won't-stoop-to-your-level?" He steps closer, getting into Castiel's face. "You wanted to learn how to be a human? Here's your next lesson – you get angry, you hit things. Now  _hit me."_

"Dean—"

" _Come on_!" he bellows. He brings up his hands and shoves Castiel, hard. "I am fucking sick of your-"

"Dean, I am not going to hit you," Castiel interrupts sharply as he takes a few steps backwards.

Well, if Castiel won't do it, Dean will. He grits his teeth and swings his fist as hard as he can, relishing the crack of his knuckles on Castiel's jaw.

Castiel stumbles. Human now, he will feel the pain shooting through his head, and he stays frozen for a second, twisted sideways. He straightens, very slowly, and opens his mouth wide to roll his jaw; he massages the side of his face with one hand. He meets Dean's eyes.

The cool, patient expression has disappeared completely.

Dean hears the first punch before he feels it – the snap of a knuckle on the edge of his face – and then just as pain explodes red-hot through his cheek and jaw, there's another – another. One knee buckles and he nearly falls but then hands curl into the lapel of his jacket, yank him upright-

He's having flashbacks to that fight in an alleyway and for the first time he considers that this might not have been a good idea.

Then there's an agonising crunch that blinds Dean temporarily, so he can't see what's happening. He can feel the repeated smash of bone and muscle into his face though and he is so lost in pain that he is woozy. Then he is thrown against the oil-drum – the cold metal ridges bruise his back – and this time, when his legs give out, Castiel simply lets him fall.

Dean presses his face into the dirt and waits for it to be over, knowing that he's lost this fight. But nothing else happens. He is not dragged back up for another round. He is not kicked or spat on. Squinting through the blood caked onto his face, Dean opens his eyes.

Standing over him is Castiel, who is studying him carefully.

"The fuck d'you wan'?" he mumbles, his words garbled through the blood filling his mouth.

After a long, silent moment, Castiel extends a hand and helps Dean to his feet, steadying him when he sways. "Do you feel better now?" he says coldly.

Dean turns to peer at his face. Castiel is breathing heavy, nostrils flared, and a thin line of blood trickles from his busted lip. For the first time in a while, Castiel is staring right back into Dean's eyes with all his dour superiority like he used to. He looks royally pissed-off.

Spitting out a glob of blood, Dean grins at Castiel. His teeth are all stained red. "Just magical. Thanks."

Castiel doesn't reply to that. He presses his lips together in annoyance and winces slightly at the pressure on his bloody mouth. The tip of his tongue pokes out to lick at the side of his mouth, where the blood is drying. Dean follows the movement. His head is spinning heavy but that's probably a concussion. Goosebumps have lifted finely on Castiel's skin, covering his arms and neck. His lips part like he's going to say something but then he drops his gaze and pushes past Dean to go back inside.

Their meeting didn't go exactly how Dean had planned, but the most important thing to Dean is that Dean's Castiel is back, and that's all he really needed.

* * *

On the fifth day, Sam and Becky finally hit onto a legitimate remedy for the Humbling Spell. It sounded pretty gross and Dean had his doubts, but Sam said ' _now get this'_ , which is his brother's dweeby, Power Ranger-esque way of saying that shit has officially hit the fan and that he has done some serious, bone-cracking research. The counteragent, he promises, is foolproof.

Reluctantly, Dean gets down to work, smearing ritual symbols all over the concrete floor of Bobby's car garage... using nothing but human stomach acid. Sam very bravely volunteered to make himself throw up for the cause, but got pissy at the onslaught of jokes Dean cracked (" _Well, you've been on the Atkins diet for so long, Sammy – it was only a matter of time until you took it to the next level")_. Either way, has Dean mentioned that witches are gross? That plus the baby fingernails and pig blood, all of which Bobby conveniently and disturbingly  _just happens to have_  downstairs... it's just an all-round orgy of slimy delights.

"Right, in you get, sunshine," Dean says as he finishes the last rune and sits back on his heels. He scrunches up his nose. "It looks delicious."

"We only need it for a couple of seconds," Sam promises for the millionth time. He takes Castiel's shoulders and guides him into the centre of the spell circle, between a goat's heart and a small sigil that looks hilariously like a dick.

Twitchy but trusting, Castiel does as he is told. He watches in studious solemnity as Sam reads aloud from the sheets of paper that Becky had sent to Bobby's dinosaur-era fax-machine.

"Pectus karim atafe augustinus portitio mundi," Sam reads slowly. He is not to be interrupted or things could go horribly wrong. Every couple of words he glances up to check on Castiel, but as he continues, he grows in confidence. **"** Moscoris tolorum kinecsi hamida."

Castiel shuffles. He rolls his shoulders, but the rustle and whisper of his wings moving invisibly is louder than anticipated; he looks sharply at Sam, wide-eyed, to see if he's caused any damage to the spell that Sam is casting.

Everything seems to be okay. Sam keeps going. "Sadain laurentum contese levi biancola-" he pauses for a moment, lifting his eyes to give Castiel a meaningful look. He clears his throat and that's the signal.

Unflinchingly Castiel lifts a thin silver knife to the inside of his elbow and draws a thin line. Blood slowly trickles over and creeps in stark ugly stripes across his skin. He swipes the fingers of his free hand through the blood and carefully flicks it at the ground around him. It lands in odd spatters and spots before disappearing.

Without any warning, the markings drawn around Castiel suddenly catch fire. He hunches instinctively, pulling his arms – and, Dean supposes, his wings too – in close as his eyes dart everywhere, watching the flaming lines of symbols grow closer. It looks a little too similar to holy fire for even Dean's liking and it's all he can do not to speak to Castiel to reassure him. Sam cannot be interrupted at any cost.

Castiel looks up and catches Dean's gaze with eyes too hard and stoic to be anything but a front for being deeply afraid. Dean stares straight back, trying to say silently all the things he wants to shout over Sam's continuing incantations.  _Don't worry. I'll look after you. Everything will be okay. I won't let anything happen to you. Trust me._

They've always been better with looks than with words; ever since that day Castiel first turned up in that barn, all big blue eyes and sparking electricity, too powerful for the space he filled, it's been through glances, or in Castiel's case, through all-out personal-space-invading stares, that they grew. They know this terrain.

Wind flares up from nowhere. It rushes through the garage, dragging at skin and hair until Dean feels goosebumps; buffets the long material of Castiel's trenchcoat, and, finally, extinguishes the flames surrounding him.

There is a long, awkward hush. Sam shuffles the pieces of paper in his hands and looks uncertainly from Bobby to Dean. Bobby studies Castiel as though he's expecting something great from him – back-flips or pirouettes or a one-man accordion band. Dean just waits.

Castiel pulls his eyes from Dean and looks around at the others. He shifts from one foot to another. "Am I...?"

"I dunno," Bobby says with a frown. "How do you feel?"

"I feel..." Castiel steps gingerly out of the spell circle and gazes blankly into space as he moves awkwardly, shifting his shoulders and limbs like a bear learning to dance. "I feel fine."

"Do you feel angelic at all?" Sam prompts.

"It's hard to tell. I can't hear the Heavenly Host - but that may be due to the extended period of time that I've been on Earth without communicating with them." Castiel lifts a hand and flexes his fingers. His eyes flash to the harsh electric lights swinging from the ceiling of the garage. He tips his head a little as though considering them – and then with a sound akin to distant screaming, every miniscule bulb in the light-fitting shatters at the same time. Dean ducks, curling defensively into himself. Glass is raining down on them from every light, sparks ripping through the air and burning colours onto his retinas.

Eventually the room grows still again. Dean, Sam and Bobby tentatively straighten to see Castiel standing unaffected. A chill takes Dean by surprise, running right from the backs of his heels to the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. As always, he has to remind himself: Angel of the Lord. Not just your friend. Not just some nerd in a trenchcoat. Angel of the Lord.

Then Sam's laughing and clapping Castiel on the shoulder, congratulating him on getting his mojo back. Dean joins in, but his smile is smaller. He can't help being a little disappointed. Yeah, Castiel is healthy and that's what was  _really_ important, of course... but he kinda liked Cas being human. Teaching him how to wash dishes, how to watch TV, how to dress himself properly. He'll never admit it to anyone, but he'll miss it.

* * *

It turns out Dean doesn't have to worry because an hour and a half later, Castiel's eyes turn black. He seizes again and cracks his head on the corner of a table. He isn't better.

* * *

On the seventh day, Dean finds the small, untidy heap of caramel wrappers under the porch steps and he is hit by two realisations with all the force of a sledgehammer – firstly, his own stupidity for not working it out sooner, but more importantly, he realises what they've been up against the whole time.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam squawks like an indignant parrot when he gets stressed out, as he is now. "What's wrong? What's happening?" He flails around the room as though if he waves his arms around enough, he might somehow might somehow find all the answers.

"Fucking  _Gabriel,_ that's what's happening," Dean snaps. He wants to kick a table or hit something but he knows that doing so would only make Sam squawk more. He then thinks that he might do it anyway, just to annoy Sam – it's been five whole minutes since Dean charged in from the porch, ranting and raving about the pile of candy-bar wrappers, and Sam still isn't caught up to speed.

"Gabriel? What?"

"Yeah, Gabriel, the Trickster,  _whatever_  – it's him, it's all him, the dumb holy-five-year-old - Mr. I'm So Enjoying The Feathers Up  _My_ Butt That I'm Gonna Shove 'Em Up Yours Too And Let 'Em Fester - the feathery bastard-"

Castiel bristles a little at the coarse description of his brother but does not complain. "You think that Gabriel could be behind this," he muses to himself.

"Jesus, don't it sound like it doesn't make sense," Dean turns on Castiel now. "It's not like it would be the first time he's fucked with us for fun – or have you forgotten being duct-taped like a BDSM porn star?"

"Dean-" Sam starts warningly.

"I have no problem believing in Gabriel's desire to cause trouble," Castiel says irritably, drawing himself up to full height to glare at Dean, "and now I see that this entire situation is strongly reminiscent of his stupid schemes. I do however recognise that his tricks are never purposeless. There is always a message or a lesson to be learned, and in this case I can't see any reason why he would do this."

"Why don't we ask him?" Dean whirls to gesture angrily at the ceiling with a sharp, accusatory finger. "I pray the Lord my soul to keep and that Gabriel get his slimy, psychotic ass down here,  _pronto,_  so I can kick his shiny little teeth in!"

Nothing happens.

Castiel says gravely, "I don't believe he will respond well to threats."

" _You_ won't respond well to the threats in a second," Dean retorts, scowling.

Sam gives him an eyebrow-lifted judgemental look. "That doesn't make any sense, Dean."

Something buzzes in Dean's pocket but he swats at it. He can look at that later. "Alright, then what do you suggest?"

"I for one suggest that you shut the hell up and we try to come up with a real plan," Bobby cuts in acidly. He leans on the broad wooden desk in the corner, folds his arms and glares between Dean and Castiel. "All in favour?"

"Bobby's right," Sam says. "If we're gonna try and call him, we should do this properly. Douchebag or not, we shouldn't be calling an archangel half-assed. We need a proper plan. We need to set traps, drawl sigils, everything. We have to be prepared."

"There's some holy oil under the sink," Bobby instructs. He tugs at the front of his cap thoughtfully. "We'll do the usual – holy fire, banishing sigils, and hell, I'll get looking at some Nordic spells, just in case his new magical Trickster status gives him any new weaknesses. It's a long shot, but you never know."

Dean nods. He slowly uncurls a fist that he doesn't remember clenching. As ever, they're right. Rational and sensible. He needs to try that approach sometime. "Sure. We got a plan then. Bobby's on Trickster research, Sammy's on holy oil, I'll get drawing some Enochian stuff and Cas – well." Dean makes a face as he takes in Castiel's dishevelled appearance, the giant square of gauze stuck to his eyebrow from his last seizure. He gives Castiel a patronising smile. "Well, Cas can just stand there and look pretty."

Snorting, Bobby mutters something derogatory under his breath and begins rifling through a drawer in his desk. Sam disappears into the kitchen in search of holy oil.

Some cue has clearly been called for them all to get to work; time to get going, then.

Dean fishes in his pocket for his flip-knife, ignoring the desperate buzz of his phone again. The edge of the blade is starting to crust; he picks some of the dirt away before lifting it to the soft underside of his arm. However, before he can press down, Castiel is suddenly at his side, one cold, narrow hand closing over his to hold the knife still.

"Uh," Dean starts – but he doesn't know where he's going with that and he stops. He can feel Castiel's breath faintly against his ear. He focuses on the thin-skinned gloss of Castiel's knuckles rather than look up to meet his big, dopey blue eyes.

"Stop," Castiel says. "I know another sigil. A better one. Gabriel will be unable to evade it when we Summon him."

"Right. What sigil is that?"

Dean's cell vibrates in his pocket again. Castiel still hasn't moved his hand.

"His true name." Castiel pauses, his voice low and solemn to an extent beyond that of its usual gravel. "It will force him to come when he is called and it will trap him into identifying solely as an angel, stripping him of his Trickster powers. It will also... piss him off, so to speak."

Surprised by the casual use of a very human phrase, Dean's eyes flash up to Castiel's. His expression is stony but there is a flicker of uncertainty there, like the words didn't fit in his mouth but he tried them anyway. Maybe when Castiel gets his powers back, he will still be this. Awkward, but real. Maybe he's been changed for good.

"Alright, let's do it," Dean agrees.

Castiel's hand lifts to let Dean cut carefully into his arm, but his fingers hover near Dean's elbow the whole time as he guides him on what to draw. For the more complicated patterns around the outside of the sigil, Castiel wraps his free hand around Dean's wrists and manipulates him like an extension of his own hand. Dean's skin itches hot under Castiel's fingertips – but thankfully, the sigil isn't too complicated and they finish quickly. And yet, when done, they remained standing pressed together, Castiel's shoulder pushed into Dean's back, and the heat under his skin makes Dean want to press closer still.

Colour is rising steadily on his ears and neck; a dull ache throbs low in his stomach. Dean clears his throat. "Um."

"Dean-?" Castiel says cautiously. He grows very still like a startled animal.

"Personal space."

The click of Castiel swallowing hard is loud in such proximity. Dean waits only until Castiel's weight drops away from his back and then he moves swiftly from the wall – first to admire his Enochian handiwork, and secondly to head out to the Impala to get something to put on his arm. The last of Bobby's bandages were used up when Castiel split his head open seizing, and blood is still dripping steadily from Dean's cut, settling thick in the creases of his palm.

As he's rooting through the trunk of the Impala, the radio suddenly crackles to life all by itself. Dean straightens with a frown when Whitney Houston comes on screaming about love, but as fast as she arrived, her voice melts into an irritated male drawl.

"Will you answer your goddamn phone?" Gabriel says angrily over a loud synthesiser key-change.

Dean gapes. On cue, the buzzing of his cell phone starts up again but this time he scrabbles for it and answers.

"What the hell is your proble—"

"Whoa, there!" Gabriel interrupts Dean mid-snarl. "Calm down, Bucky, and hear me out. We need to talk."

"Like hell we need to talk," Dean growls. "You just need to get down here to give Cas a kick up the mojo and fix him, you sick bas-"

"How about this, Dean-o – you shut your fat, sanctimonious mouth for one damn second and listen to me." Gabriel's tone is short, menacing, and maybe there's some trace of celestial electricity crackling through the phone connection because for once Dean clamps his lips together and does as he's told. "Consider this, Dean," Gabriel continues mildly. "If I hadn't wanted you to know it was me, I wouldn't  _let_ you know it was me – those candy-bar wrappers, quad erat demonstrandum. Got it? Likewise, I wouldn't have contacted you by calling six times like your freaking prom date if I didn't want you to come find me."

"Why?" Blood is still streaming freely down Dean's arm. He swaps the hand that he is holding his cell phone in so that he can sort of elevate the wound. With his free hand, he gropes again in the trunk for bandages.

"I want to talk and I want it on my terms. No traps, no holy fire, no Summoning. Just you, me, and a little nugget of a thing I like to call  _trust_."

"You want me to trust you?" Dean glances back towards the house. No-one seems to have noticed that this conversation is taking place.

"How about I say pretty please and you get the cherry top when you get here," Gabriel remarks snidely. "Meet me tonight, let's say two A.M, Davis Cemetery, just off County Highway 41. Come alone and don't tell the Jolly Green Giant. I'll be the devilishly handsome one."

"Devil's the word," Dean mutters.

"Oh, Dean, you  _do_ know just how to push my buttons!" the smug bastard chirps and then just like that, he's gone. Click and dial-tone.

Right. Because that's not weird at all. Dean sets to actually wrapping up his arm before he bleeds dry and heads back inside to stop the Summoning.

* * *

Dean wakes Castiel up at quarter to one in the morning. He knows that he's supposed to meet Gabriel alone but he wants Cas healthy, stat, and if Dean had a dime for every time that smug holier-than-thou celestial bastard has made a promise and pansied out... well, he'd have a couple of dimes.

Since Castiel has been moved into Bobby's frill guest room to rest undisturbed, it's pretty easy to smuggle him out. The main problem is sneaking past Bobby's room, easing every step on creaky floorboards. The door squeaks too; Castiel shifts slightly under the blankets in response to the sound. He looks a lot less dorky and serious when he's asleep – aside from the giant band-aid over his cracked forehead - and Dean kind of regrets having to get him up. There's a gross dark blotch on the pillow which Dean would worry about if he didn't know that Castiel has been having a lot of nosebleeds recently. That's probably what it is. Castiel is more and more human every day.

"Hey, sunshine. Get up," Dean says gruffly, jabbing at him under the blankets.

Castiel is sleepy and subdued. He rubs roughly at his eyes and makes a couple of low, whining noises of complaint in the back of his throat, but he doesn't ask any questions. He throws his trenchcoat on over his pyjamas.

Dean trips over a pair of Sam's giant boots on the way out and glowers at Castiel, who looks too dour to  _not_  be mocking him in some way... but Dean can't resent his silence or, more importantly, his willingness to blindly trust Dean and creep out of the house in the dark.

"Where are we going?" Castiel only questions what's going on once they've swung into the front of the Impala.

The engine growls eagerly to life and Dean can't help a tiny smile cracking his lips at the thought of getting his baby out on the road again. The car purrs quietly down the long drive to the road, but when upstairs lights flick on, Dean floors it. There's no way he'll let Bobby or Sam drag them back if this is their one big shot. He guns it out onto the main road that runs perpendicular to Singer Salvage, and only once his baby is speeding safely away does he relax. "We're going to see everybody's favourite archangel," Dean replies.

"Lucifer?"

Startled, Dean looks over at Castiel. Human body and ugly flannel pyjamas can't hide how alien he still is, and the angel hasn't quite got the hang of telling jokes yet. It's only the slight twist of a smirk and a self-satisfied glint in his eyes that even allows Dean identify the response as humorous, but it makes Dean laugh all the same. "Yeah, Cas," he says, shaking his head. Every day Castiel surprises him a little more. "Lucifer."

Castiel seems pleased that he amused Dean, although it's hard to tell when he turns his head away to look out the window and all Dean can see off him in his peripheral vision is that big stupid gauze bandage over his eyebrow. "Gabriel contacted you," Castiel states.

"Yahtzee." Dean has to look back at the road to make a turn down onto the interstate. "He called me yesterday. Like, six times, actually. He was pretty insistent that we come find him."

"We?"

"Uh. Well, he said to come alone, but..." Dean trails off and glances at Castiel. Under the flashing lights of highway lampposts whizzing past, Castiel seems to glow. His skin is flushed and rosy like he's drunk on fine, expensive wines, and judging by the dark purplish stain on his lower lip, that might well be the case. "You been raiding Bobby's booze cupboards, Cas?"

"No." Castiel frowns. "I don't really enjoy the taste of-"

"I'm only kidding," Dean interrupts before he hurts himself; his face is all creased up with confusion and injury at the accusation. "You just look-" – what? Dean can't damn well say  _glowy_ , now can he? He clears his throat. "You've got some stuff around your mouth. You should probably fix that."

Once he understands what Dean is referring to, Castiel busies himself peering into the mirror. It's kind of funny to watch him checking out his reflection, squinting and staring and screwing his face up... but then again, they're on the interstate and Dean is driving over fifty and he should watch the road. Besides, after a couple of minutes, he feels bad that he's made the guy paranoid.

"Don't worry about it, man," Dean amends. "It's probably nothing."

"Yes. You're right." Castiel flips the mirror back into the roof of the car and as he settles into his seat, he roughly licks his lips. It's a mechanical gesture rather than one driven by hunger or want, intended merely to displace whatever darkness was clinging to his lip, but all the same it has Dean distractedly tracing the curve of his mouth.

Wondering what it feels like.

Dean jolts with the realisation that Castiel is now watching Dean watching him, with that curious little head-tilt and all. Dean drags his eyes back to the road before he crashes the car or something.

It's just over an hour-long journey and Castiel falls asleep within the first twenty minutes, head lolling stupidly against the window – so he makes for great conversation. Dean considers putting some music on but Castiel's asleep and he looks kind of just a little bit really fucking cute, so he drives in silence. He expects Castiel to wake up of his own accord but even when Dean pulls the Impala slowly up onto the curb outside Davis Cemetery and turns off the engine... nada.

Glancing around, it's clear that there's no-one around for miles, except for some pokey little cottages some hundred yards down the road, and Dean will hear anyone approaching. He leans over to grab his supplies from the backseat and leaves Castiel in the car. Anyway, he likes the idea of Gabriel not knowing that he came with back-up. Dean rolls over the wrought-iron gate, easy. It's dark inside.

It seems that Gabriel is late.

Dean shakes the bottle of holy oil to check that it's still full – yup – and begins carefully drawing a thick circle in the grass with the contents. He pours slowly, not wanting to mess it up in any way, and then-

"I thought we said no traps, Dean," Gabriel says coolly.

Dean jerks upright, clutching the bottle of holy oil to his chest before he realises what he's doing. He tries to hide it, but it's obvious and childish behind his back, and stuffing it down his pants seems like going too far. Gabriel only cocks an eyebrow at him and saunters past, hands in pockets. He peers down at the semi-circle so far, seemingly evaluating it.

"But no, no, you finish up that ring of holy oil," Gabriel says. "And let me guess – when you're done, you'll have this conversation as long as I take two steps to the left?" He chuckles. "Or are you gonna do your usual move... backing away in fear all the while sneering insult after petty insult, provoking me into waltzing into your little trap." The look he throws Dean is cold and withering. "How dumb do you think I am?"

"That depends," Dean says. "What you've done to Cas - is that permanent?"

"Yeah, it's pretty temporary. In fact," Gabriel strokes his chin with one finger, a mockery of surprise lighting his face, "one might even say that it was  _so_ temporary that the effects have been gone for weeks now." He laughs in a short burst, and throws Dean a cheesy wink. "Gotta admit though, I made a pretty cute shifter, huh?"

He tips his head as if to say  _so there you go_  – and the gesture is all at once so like Castiel and so foreign that anger flares again through Dean, hotter now, and he would like nothing better than the pummel the ever-loving crap out of Gabriel, archangel or not.

Dean skips straight over the revelation in regards to the shifter – that's no news. That cabin was  _way_ too clean the second time they went back; it could have only been a trick. He demands instead, "What do you mean, gone for weeks?"

Gabriel, somehow overlooking how pissed off Dean is, says in his most patronising tone, "Look, Dean-o, there's a bigger picture here—"

"A bigger picture?" Dean snarls, striding a couple steps forwards until he's right in the smug little fucker's face. " _A bigger picture -_ here's the only picture, you overly-righteous asshole: Cas is royally fucked up, thanks to you! He got pneumonia, he got alcohol poisoning – he's in the car right now with a giant freakin' band-aid over one eye 'cause he had a seizure and hit a table!" With every word, Dean is jabbing a finger right up into Gabriel's face, fighting to urge to just sock him. His lip curls back from his teeth; he speaks in a low, menacing growl. "Now all of that happened in the past couple weeks and it doesn't sound too angelic, does it? So how about you review your little bullshit story about how you're not doing anything and he's all better now, and explain to me why the  _fuck_  he's turning into a demon!"

Blinking rapidly, Gabriel takes a step back. "Wait, what? I didn't turn him into a demon."

Dean doesn't believe him. He lifts his chin, looking down his nose at Gabriel with disgust. "You lie to me and I will stuff you and put a Christmas tree up your ass."

"Come on." Gabriel hold his hands out in front of him, surrendering; his face screws up in incredulous protest. "Would I really do that? That would be like the worst idea since you and Gigantor started the Apocalypse." He let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly. His whole body swings with the movement like a kid's spinning-toy. "Wow. If Castiel's going dark side then shit is a lot worse than I thought."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean demanded.

"Look. Hand on heart, I promise I don't know anything about demons. All I did was have a little fun screwing with you kiddos' heads, making him human – the effects of which have by now long worn off. What I  _did_ do, indirectly, was make him vulnerable, which is both regrettable and kinda interesting, since something is clearly now corrupting him." Gabriel tips his hands from side to side, like he's weighing his options. He quirks an eyebrow at Dean again. "Thus, the 'bigger picture' that I was trying to get around to earlier."

It sounds kind of stupid. Also, kind of ridiculous – and Dean can't work out if it's ridiculous enough to be Trickster bullshit or just ridiculous enough to be true. "Corrupting him like how?"

Puffing his cheeks out, Gabriel exhales slowly. "I... don't know," he starts slowly, but there's a lilt to his voice like he isn't telling the whole either. "That's why I called you all the way out here though." He grins and waggles an index finger in front of Dean. "Aha! Continuity. I was watching my prank play out, I recognised that something weird was happening, and I contacted you. Planted Mars bars and stuff. I called you out here away from anyone – or anything – listening, you see. There's something freaky going on around Bobby's property, and I mean freaky by a fetishist's standards. Really freaky. Something big, old, and more powerful than you could imagine, I'd guess by the fact that it's making an angel its bitch. I thought you'd want the heads-up, seeing as you morons can't work jack-shit out for yourself."

Dean's eyes narrow. Yeah, it definitely sounds like bullshit.

Still, he finds himself recalling the moments of chance, unsettling coincidence and just plain bizarre of Bobby's house in the past few weeks. The constantly flickering light bulb in the kitchen. Their inability to leave, for a while at least. And the creepy shadows that Dean had played off as just been darkness escaping the sun. They  _were_  just shadows... right? Dean studies Gabriel, trying to read his face. He isn't sure what he's looking for that would identify the Trickster as lying once again but he seems clean anyway. "Thanks for that," Dean says dubiously.

"No problemo. See – I'm not always dropping grand pianos on you," Gabriel says pointedly. "I'm a nice guy."

"You're an asshole," Dean corrects him. "Why would you do all this anyway? I know your style by now. You never give a rat's ass who gets hurt as long as you think it's hilarious along the way. What could possibly make it worth your while to help us now?"

Gabriel feigns injury, holding a hand over where his heart is... or rather, where his vessel's heart is duly pumping blood without thought or sentiment. "Ooh, that stings a little. Hey, I have my reasons, alright? I've been trying to fix my family all this time. Settle Mikey and Lucifer down, whatever. Bigger fish to fry." He shrugs, his voice airy and light-hearted now. "All my fish have been fried, Dean. Life post-apocalypto just didn't agree with me and I'm  _bored._ " He juts out his lower lip petulantly. "I gotta have  _someone_ to play with, and let's be honest here, there's something very amusing about playing with my little brother's humanity... helping him figure out Slot A, Slot B, et cetera, et cetera."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm talking about my dear little brother's feelings – since at some point he got a helluva lot of those – ifnyouknowwhatImean. Hm?" His tone is sing-song suggestive. "You get what I'm saying now?"

"Honestly? No."

Gabriel chuckles for a second, but then catches sight of Dean's blank expression and seems to realise that he is genuinely lost. He groans.

"Ugh. God, I forgot I was talking to a moron." Walking on tiptoe so that he bobs daintily back into Dean's personal space like a cokehead ballerina, Gabriel says sweetly, "Okay, how blunt would you like me to be? Broken nail, maybe – or rusty spoon?" He draws a deep breath, rests his hands lightly on Dean's upper arms and then explains in a slow, withering monotone: "The idiot is in love with you. Capiche?"

Gabriel's hands are still on Dean and he doesn't even shake him off. Dean is still frowning down at Gabriel, scepticism and confusion etched into every line of his face. They stare at each other for a while in silence – Gabriel expectant, Dean bewildered. And because Dean is ten steps behind, it's a while before something clicks into place.

"Wait, are we talking about Cas?"

" _Ding ding ding!"_  Gabriel chirrups. "And, to Dean Winchester, the prize for general trivia and the friggin' obvious. Yes, Dean, I am talking about Castiel. The one and only."

Rolling his eyes, Dean opens his mouth to respond, but as he does so he realises that he has no idea what he is going to say. He hangs there for a second, lips parted with words bobbing choked and uncertain in the back of his throat. As he hesitates, he grows aware of blood drumming so loud in his head that his vision pulses like a bad movie. At last he says faintly, "That's bullshit."

"Pfft. Yeah, sure." Gabriel rocks back on his heels and swings away from Dean. He spins idly, burying his hands deep in his pockets, and when he comes back to face Dean, he just inclines his head and repeats with a knowing smile: "Bullshit. Right?"

Dean drags his eyes away from Gabriel. At a loss for what else to look at, he watches as he tips his bottle of holy oil from side to side, listening to the rich slosh of liquid inside. "Bullshit," he echoes distractedly.

By the time Dean shakes himself out of whatever reverie he has accidentally slipped into and looks up again, Gabriel is gone. There is nothing to suggest that he had ever even been there, save for a half-complete ring of holy oil and some broken blades of frosted grass.

And Dean. Standing there, quiet and stupefied and completely lost.


	12. Chapter 12

The sky is starting to get that thin, hollow look of wasting when dawn is only a few hours away. Dean and Castiel need to get back to Bobby's, pronto. At the moment, that is the priority. Anything else – finding out about what's screwing Castiel over; getting a cup of joe; goddamned  _feelings_  – can wait an hour or so until both feet are firmly on Singer property.

When Dean opens the car door, Castiel is still asleep. The only difference is that he has shunted over so that his cheek is smushed into the glossy leather interior, his knees tucked up at stupid angles in front of him. Dean muses that he can't be too comfortable like that and that if for some reason Dean crashes the car or something then Castiel's spine would probably snap on principle judging by that position – not that Dean would ever crash the Impala – and then, halfway through a long rambling internal monologue, Dean realises that he is leaning half-in, half-out the car, and staring at Castiel while he sleeps.

This is Gabriel's fault. Planting creepy little seeds of doubt and confusion in Dean's head.

It's unusual for Dean to be pissed off while he's driving, but there you go. He's glad that Castiel is still asleep, because he doesn't think he can deal with Castiel's questions and enigmatic statements and those long heavy stares.

However, because whatever God there is or isn't hates Dean completely, Castiel wakes up about ten minutes after they leave Davis Cemetery.

He stirs dramatically, making a weird yowling noise and jerking upright like he's been electrocuted. It makes Dean jump half out his skin and he nearly crashes the car.

"Jesus Christ!" Dean exclaims angrily and he slams his palm down onto the steering wheel hard, since there's nothing more aggressive that he can do while he's driving. "What the hell!"

Castiel blinks at him, slow and sleepy. He takes a few seconds to react. "I didn't mean to startle you," he finally says. "I apologise."

He glances at the window, where the darkness outside casts his reflection back sharply, and he tries in vain to flatten his hair. It's no use though; it continues to stick up in unruly hedgehog tufts. After a moment, he gives up and turns back to face Dean – which only makes Dean angrier, because Castiel has no goddamn right to wake up and scare the crap out of him and then make it all worse by looking like a stupid fluffy bird. Dean's fingers tighten on the steering and he tells himself not to look over. There is a thick, terse silence.

"Are we nearly there?" Castiel asks.

"Nope. We're on our way back. You missed him." In his peripheral vision, Dean sees Castiel frown, and before he can complain, Dean says shortly, "You were asleep, okay? I didn't want to wake you up. Not much happened anyway."

Castiel doesn't answer. As usual, instead of asking a question such as  _what did he say to you_ like a normal person might do, Castiel just tips his head idiotically to one side.

Dean huffs his breath angrily. "Gabriel didn't do it. All he did was make you human for a while but he thinks that something else is hiding out in Bobby's house corrupting you while you're weak." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he manoeuvres the Impala to pull onto the interstate.

Castiel breathes slowly, whisper soft and clouded up the glass in front of him. He tips his head back slightly to look up at the ceiling, seemingly deep in thought. He remains like that for a few seconds and Dean would give a hell of a lot to know what is going through his head at that moment, but Dean sure as hell isn't gonna ask. Castiel levels his gaze back to the road ahead and merely says, "That sounds plausible."

After that, he is silent for so long that Dean reluctantly breaks his promise to himself and looks over. Castiel is staring straight ahead, distant and empty as though he's retreated into his own mind. His eyes glint with the harsh orange light of headlamps rushing past. He looks tired.

On any other day, Dean would ask what's wrong or at the very least skirt around the topic while awkwardly trying to make him feel better. Today however Gabriel's words are dancing around Dean's head, in the much the same way that Gabriel has evidently been dancing around there for weeks – planting thoughts, ideas, feelings. Or just digging at where they already were.

Dean stops the car.

Eyes wide, serious and obscenely blue, Castiel turns to Dean. "What are we doing?" he asks. "I don't believe it's wise to stop here. A car may come along while we're immobile and I personally have no desire to get into a car accident."

"Yeah." It's Dean's turn to stare blankly ahead now, stony and hostile. "You're right. It is pretty reckless to park here." Still without meeting Castiel's eyes, Dean reaches down to the handbrake and cranks it back into place. The Impala squeals and settles comfortably on the tarmac.

Castiel shifts awkwardly in his seat. "Dean, are you alright?" His voice, while low and rough as ever, is tinged at the edges with uneasiness and concern.

Only now does Dean look over at Castiel. He has spent the past couple of minutes steeling himself for this by avoiding Castiel, staring at anything but him, and now he won't back down. He stares into Castiel's face like a challenge, taking in the crease pulled between his eyebrows, the thin lines spidering out from the corners of his blue, blue eyes – Dean takes it all in, having filled himself right to the brim with resentment and apathy.

"I just agreed that what we're doing is stupid and reckless," Dean says, anger spreading thin under the surface of his every breath and syllable, "but I'm still doing it. Haven't you got anything to say about that?"

"No." Castiel's reaction is not what Dean had expected. The frown lifts, easing the crinkles from his brow. He isn't startled or puzzled or vacant with incomprehension. The smooth, solemn line of his jaw and closed mouth indicates that he's taking Dean seriously, but he is completely calm.

"Why the hell not?!" Dean snaps, losing his temper. "Look at us! Sure, it's nearing three A.M on a winter morning in the middle of nowhere, but we're on the freaking interstate! We could get totalled by a truck or we could get dragged off the road and murdered or we could get arrested – what the fuck are we doing, Cas?"

Dean scans Castiel's face for the slightest hint of anything like regret at his actions. Nothing. Dean jerks away and slams the flat of his palm down hard onto the horn. Again and again and again. The Impala is roaring out into the night and darkness, hollow and desperate as Dean is, and Castiel just stares back austere and unblinking. It's not good enough for Dean. He feels that despondency crawling back up his throat and he's lost and angry and this is another moment when he just wants to punch the shit out of Cas or have the shit punched out of him.

He reaches over for Castiel, who suddenly stiffens at his nearness, and crudely yanks a button off the front of his trenchcoat. Dean bounces it once in his hand, right in front of Castiel's face, and then throws the car door open, swinging out. In one smooth movement, he slides a step away from the Impala, pulls his arm back with all that baseball talent and prestige that he'd had praised as a kid and never had the time or place or the childhood to act upon – and he throws the button as far as he can. It clinks on a metal barrier and then is gone.

When Dean whirls back to the face the car, shoulders slumped and breathing heavy as gratuitous adrenaline courses through him, he sees that Castiel has also climbed out. He looks awkward, as though he's aware that the conversation has taken an emotional turn but that he doesn't feel experienced or ready to know how to react. Even separated by about several yards, Dean can see that Castiel's eyes are soft, aching.

"Why do you put up with my bullshit, Cas?" Dean asks, his voice raw with everything he isn't saying. And there it is. That's as direct a question as he's gonna pitch and right now everything is hanging on the quiet in Castiel's eyes.

Castiel swallows, hard; Dean sees the strained bob of his throat. "I trust your judgement." However, Castiel speaks so low that he is barely audible over the continuing grumble of the Impala's engine, and for a split-second, Castiel's eyes flicker uncertainly away from Dean's, cast towards the ground, before returning.

And just like that, with one small movement of his eyes, Dean knows.

Shit.

He passes a hand over his mouth, pulling at his face, and then balls up a fist tight. Shit. He doesn't say anything else. He just climbs back into the car and waits for Castiel to do the same. Then, without a word, he takes them back to Bobby's.

* * *

To say that Bobby and Sam aren't happy to see them would be an understatement. More accurate would be to say that the instant the Impala pulls off the main road and grumbles down towards the house, the two of them are standing on the front porch sporting Olympiad bitch-faces.

"Would you mind telling me what in the hell is going on?" Bobby demands before the car doors have even shut behind them.

"Bobby..." Dean says warningly. He can tell that Bobby has been building up his rage while he waited for their return and now he's ready to blow – and to be honest, Dean can't deal with tension between  _everyone_ he knows, and with Castiel already a goner as far as avoiding awkwardness, Dean doesn't want to get in a fight.

"I'm never one to say no to a long romantic drive myself, but given the circumstances I woulda thought you'd have scrounged up enough common sense between the two of you to realise that something is out there  _hunting_ you! Specifically, hunting  _him._  But  _clearly_ ," Bobby rolls his eyes, so full of sarcastic pride that he could explode, and hones in on Dean. He knows that Dean is responsible for the runaway, because, hell, he always is. " _Clearly,_ I was mistaken!"

"You know what, Bobby, you are mistaken," Dean says. He comes up the front steps and comes to a stomping, soldier-like halt right in front of Bobby's, close enough to see himself reflected in Bobby's glare. "And here's why. The thing that's hunting us isn't  _out there._ It's in here. On your property, in your house, I really don't know. But it's hanging out here like an extra member of the goddamn Brady Bunch, sucking Cas down with a mojito!"

A low growl starts in Bobby's throat like he's about to take it out of Dean's ass, just like when he was only a kid messing around with dangerous tools. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean doesn't answer immediately. Sam reaches out for him hesitantly, as though acting on base instinct. "Dean?" he prompts softly.

Clearing his throat, Dean looks between them, and then he says lightly "Gabriel told me", as though it doesn't matter at all.

"Gabriel?" Sam echoes. "Wait – like, the Gabriel that we're hunting?"

"Well, I wasn't taking Cas to freaking Chuck-E Cheese at three in the morning," Dean says sardonically. "Yeah, Gabriel. And we weren't  _hunting_  him, Sam, we were trying to talk to him. So I went out, found him and I talked to him."

"And?"

" _And..."_  Dean hesitates, licks the corner of the mouth. Where the hell should he start? "Gabriel says that something weird is going on here, something really weird. That's why he wanted me to find him away from the house – in case anything was listening or whatever. That, and, uh," he hesitates, "to say that he was the one who made Cas human –  _but_ ," he says, raising his voice as he sees Bobby and Sam begin to raise an incredulous protest, " _that's it_. He turned Cas back ages ago, he says. He's not doing this anymore... see, he thinks there's something seriously evil hiding out. He doesn't know what though... on that he was conveniently ignorant, but... you know, I believe him." Dean shrugs. He knows that there are a million reasons why Gabriel could be obviously bullshitting them, but this feels legit. "I think he's right. For a while, stuff around here has been... well, a little off."

"Off like how?" Bobby says indignantly. "Explain yourself - off like my three-week-old sour cream is  _off_ , or off like you've been seeing blood climbing the walls?"

"I don't know," Dean snaps, disliking Bobby's overly-aggressive tone. "I just-"

"What  _I_ want to know," Sam starts irritably, puppy-dog eyes flashing, "is why you're telling us all this! If Gabriel took such extreme precautions to talk you just so that whatever is allegedly watching over us doesn't find out that we're onto it, why are you just blabbing it all out?"

"Well, I wasn't gonna drive you all the way to Montana and back just to spread the good news," Dean retorts. He sees Sam give that little curt nod, like  _oh right sure well done you fucking moron_ , and Dean bristles. "Hey, whatever it is, the damn thing's gonna work it out pretty soon when we gank it, so why dance around the issue any longer? You needed to know!"

Sam presses his lips tight and his eyebrows pull together. "That was irresponsible, Dean," he says. "If Gabriel's right, then we just lost the advantage over whatever's hijacking Cas' grace."

"Yeah –  _if_ being the key word," Bobby grumbles, "seeing as apparently we're just going on say-so – and  _Trickster_  say-so at that. You know, I just don't get it, Dean. He told you himself that he turned Castiel human and oh, how damn convenient that it happens just when there's something evil waiting to eat up his mojo. Why the hell would he bother leeching Cas' powers in the first place if not—"

"Look, it doesn't matter!" Dean cuts in, because he'd rather let this thing eat him alive using rusty cutlery than talk about Gabriel's motives. He can feel his ears getting hot and after that it's T-minus ten until he is genuinely blushing like a little fucking schoolgirl. Worse still is the knowledge that this whole debate is going on right in front of Castiel, who is standing somewhere behind him, dopey and clueless as ever. "I just need you to trust me."

"Trust you? Or trust Gabriel?" Bobby asks acidly.

"Trust my trust in Gabriel," Dean shoots back. He glares at Bobby first, then at Sam. "Okay?"

"We might as well," Sam concedes with a half-hearted shrug. "We've run every other theory to the ground and this sounds as likely as all the other stuff we tried. What else are we gonna do?"

"I'll tell you what you're gonna do – you idjits are gonna sit tight and let me deal with this," Bobby says, and while the caustic sting is gone from his tone, there is no doubt as to the fact that they've just been dismissed. His expression is hard as his eyes flick challengingly from Dean to Sam and then down the porch steps to where Castiel. Then he turns and moves back inside, muttering under his breath about the cold outdoors and getting frostbite.

For a moment, Dean and Sam seem to be stunned into silence. Once Bobby is no more than a silhouette in the darkened hallway, they swivel to face each other, exchanging identical looks of  _wait, what the-_  A split –second later, they hurry after him as one, crashing into one another in the narrow corridor like overexcited puppies scrambling for a place, and Sam catches the edge of the doorway with his foot so that he falls with a crash. Dean gets through the doorway first, but they speak at the same time so that their horror and complaints are all mixed up as a general shout of protest.

"What—"

"But, Bobby—"

"—you can't—"

"—just sit here letting you—"

" _Shuddup_ , will you?" Bobby growls. "You listen to me. You boys are like family to me, you know that, but you are visitors here, and this is  _my_ house. My house, my rules, and if it's got a problem, then I'll look after it myself!"

"Bobby, you can't try and do this alone," Sam insists.

"Look, if the four of us plus Little Miss Sunshine couldn't get the right monster, then there's no way in hell you could do any better flying solo," Dean points out. He holds his hands up in front of him, pacifying. "No offence."

Bobby doesn't look angry – just stubborn and relentless. When he listens to Sam and Dean's arguments, his jaw is set tight and it's probable that nothing they say will change his mind. "You boys forget sometimes that I've been doing this job since before you two were able to wipe your own asses," he says. "Now you tell me again that I wouldn't know how to ghost-proof my own goddamn house by myself."

Dean rolls back on his heels, smirking arrogantly. "You wouldn't know how to-"

Sam punches him in the side. " _Dean_!" Sam scowls at him, but gets a swift kick to the shin for that. Dean pushes childishly at his face with the flat of his hand and from there it could all quickly deteriorate into squabbling madness, but Sam decides to play the  _I'm-the-bigger-man-and-not-only-by-three-inches-in-height_ card; he pitches a rational argument to make Bobby see sense.

"Bobby, I get that you wanna be able to look after your own property by yourself, but this isn't about your house, or about you – or even about me, or Dean! It's about Cas," Sam says in his most persuasive voice, usually reserved for buttering up mean old ladies. "He isn't getting any better and frankly we need all the help we can get."

"Forgive me for pushing my opinion onto a dilemma that is beyond that of my business," Castiel chips in, clumsily mixing up his formal vocabulary and mangled human phrases, "but at this point, to try and work this out alone would be completely counter-productive. We've exhausted every possibility that we were able to come up with as a unit of four, and I believe that we need to expand upon that. Becky Rosen's additions have been incredibly helpful and what we need again is-"

"A fresh pair of eyes," Sam finishes emphatically. Dean frowns at him, wondering at what point Sam and Castiel had built up some kind of beautiful bromance where they complete each other's lives, souls and sentences. It doesn't matter anyway; the hot flare in the back of Dean's throat isn't jealousy, and by this point, Sam has already started to excitedly explain himself. "It's not a bad thing to need help. We could try and get some new thoughts on the whole thing. We could ask, like, I don't know, Rufus, or-"

"Rufus is dead."

Bobby speaks with so little emotion or inflection that for a second it doesn't sink in. Sam keeps talking, Dean keeps sulking - and then all at once, ten seconds late, Sam trips over his words and Dean recoils like he's been slapped.

"What?"

"But – how – since when?" Sam stammers.

"Couple of weeks ago," Bobby says quietly. He jerks his baseball cap down low over his eyes and doesn't speak for a moment. Then he looks back up, calm and composed as ever, save for a tell-tale thickness in his voice as he says, "Yeah. Rugaru case in Minnesota. He was out with some other guys, but... well."

Shit. There isn't much that they can say to that. Dean glances over at Sam to see if he looks as shocked as Dean feels. The two Winchesters have a careless gank-or-die technique, often with a little too much emphasis on the  _die_  – lazy drills, taunting the dead, spending too much time gazing intently at the flickering match in their hand before they salt-and-burn – and they've been inordinately lucky. Of course, things like the Apocalypse and forty years in Hell put everything back into perspective... but still. They didn't know Rufus too well, except when he occasionally turned up to harass Bobby about burying a body, but he was a good guy, a better hunter, and in Dean's opinion his taste in whiskey redeemed him for not being the world's most sociable butterfly. Plus, being family to Bobby made him, by proxy, family to Sam and Dean.

"Jesus," Dean finally says to fill the silence. "Bobby – why didn't you tell us sooner?"

Bobby doesn't answer that; he just turns to look at Dean, his expression utterly blank, and stares him down a couple of seconds. His eyes are so cold and stony that, in any other context, Dean would think that he was just plain mad, but there is the creaking pull of Bobby's throat as he swallows and the thin line of his lips pressed tight together, and Dean knows as well as anyone that there as some things you just want to pretend never happened.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Sam says, intervening. "Rufus was – he was a good guy. I'm sorry." He reaches a hand to squeeze Bobby's shoulder comfortingly, but the touch never lands; Bobby stiffens a little and leans out of the way.

In the air is the absolute feeling that the conversation is over, and yet there is at the same time no real sense of closure. They hover.

"If it's any consolation, your friend is undoubtedly resting in a Paradise perfect for his own design," Castiel says, awkward and solemn. He has that reassuring upwards lilt to the timbre of his voice – and then he spoils it. "Unless, of course, he made any demon deals, in which case—"

Dean twists and reaches back to hit Castiel in the stomach. With Castiel's mojo restored, it can't hurt any more than a stunned mosquito flying headlong into him, but Castiel falls silent anyway. He flushes a little in embarrassment and it takes Dean a split-second too long to tear his eyes from that ridge of pink high on his cheekbones...by which time, Bobby is already shoving past them to the hallway outside, muttering "-and that's that."

The wake he leaves is harsh, hollow, heavy. Sam and Dean find each other again and exchange grimaces.

"Shit," Dean mutters. "I liked Rufus... goddamnit." He scratches his head, pulling his hair up into unruly tufts and clumps, and leans against the front of the library desk. He exhales long and slow, feeling as though something stable is starting to crumble apart at the edges. "So now what?"

Sam throws himself down onto the couch in a great sprawl of limbs. "Well, we gotta work out what we're really up against first," he says simply.

Dean throws him a hard look. "No, no, no," he says, shaking his head slowly. "Nuh-uh. You heard Bobby, didn't you? He doesn't want our help!"

"Yeah, I know. So we're not gonna help him," Sam says. "We're gonna do it ourselves."

Making a real effort to maintain his disapproving frown, Dean inhales deeply and puffs out his cheeks. "I don't know, man." He doesn't want to sit around doing jack-shit either, but Bobby seemed pretty pissed off about the whole thing.

"He can't complain if we get the answer before he does – and if he beats us, well, then what's the problem?"

Dean considers this. "Yeah, I guess you're right, but—"

"Look, we don't even have to tell him that we're doing it. It's the easiest thing in the world," Sam persuades. "We have Gabriel's help as well – it'll be fine. Pass me my laptop, will you?"

"Sure, whatever. Let's do it." Dean grabs Sam's laptop case from behind him on the desk and leans forwards to hand it over, hoping that Sam will be able to reach it without Dean having to abandon his comfortable and lazy post by the desk. Sam's fingers twitch and strain a couple of inches away; with an annoyed sigh, Dean pushes himself upright to hand it over. "So, Einstein, what are we up against?"

"You tell me. What did Gabriel say this... thing was?" Sam pulls his laptop out and starts it up. The pale blue light of the screen casts everyone with an eerie glow in the dark, reminding them all that it's only about four in the morning.

"He didn't."

Sam bitchfaces. "That's really helpful, Dean."

"He did say that it's probably older and more powerful than we'd have thought," Dean offers. He leafs distractedly through a leather-bound tome of Wiccan spells that lies open on the desk. "Take from that what you will."

"So... something arcane or ancient."

"Yeah. A ghoul in a zimmerframe or something." Dean snaps the book shut, already bored. There's a reason why Sam does all research. He grins at his doofus little brother. "Hey, Sammy, it might even be as ugly as you!"

Sam doesn't even look up. "Hilarious."

Petulant that no-one is humouring him, Dean flicks the desk-lamp on and off and on and off and on and off and on – but Sam isn't even telling him off. There's no point in doing anything anymore. "I don't get it," he complains. "I thought witches were like the oldest things ever. What else  _is_ there?"

"Lucifer."

The sound of Castiel's voice, gravel and dust, scares the crap out of Dean. He doesn't know how but he'd somehow completely forgotten that Castiel was there. Dean glares over his shoulder, mouthful of snark and biting sarcasm, but at some point Castiel has left the doorway and is standing less than a foot from Dean – so all he gets out is a grumpy, " _What_?"

"The original witches got their powers from watching Lucifer as he first walked the earth, using herbs and Satanic rituals to imitate the destruction that my brother could cause by his Grace alone," Castiel explains. "Lucifer was the first."

"Right. Sure. That's great, Cas – only one problem," Dean says cynically. "Now I know that you got blown up a whole load of times during the Apocalypse, so you might've missed a trick... here's the deal: Lucifer is trapped in his Cage. I'm pretty confident of that fact since, you know, I watched with my own eyes as he jumped into a gaping hole in the ground riding my brother like a freaking Mayfair pony!"

"I am aware that's the case," Castiel says, jaw pulled tight with the first flickers of irritation, "but his servants still walk among us."

"What, demons?"

"Lilith was the first demon and, similarly, the first witch. There are many like her – powerful demons who originally created the ways in which humans could be corrupted of their humanity," Castiel says gravely.

"Or angels of their... angel-ness, I suppose," Sam interevenes quickly, seeing Dean's expression settle into his  _you-are-a-moron_  look. "It's a great idea, Cas, really, and it makes a lot of sense... but I don't think so. Bobby's house is practically one big demon trap – even Ruby wasn't that stupid. We should still look into it but I don't think there's much point in a demon busting in to get you if they can't bust out again. No offence."

"None taken," Castiel replies easily as he rearranges his trenchcoat around him. He seems totally oblivious to the fact that he is standing so close to Dean that Dean can practically work out the threadcount of his tie. "I was merely speculating."

"Dude, don't worry about it." Sam smiles languidly – just a split-second flash of that easy Stanford charm that always got him nice girls who wanted to be  _respected_  – before looking back at his laptop. "We'll work it out."

"Yes. Of course." Still speaking in that low rasp about witches and demons, Castiel leaves his side to join Sam.

Dean isn't really listening. He has suddenly been hit by a surge of numbing exhaustion, and as he watches Castiel lean over Sam to share some lore, he aches.

Maybe it's the loss of Rufus; maybe it's the discomfort of being bone-tired at four in the morning without the aid of a strong whiskey. Dean won't even entertain notions of anything else... because after all, regardless of the amused affection that wells up inside him when Castiel tries to use human slang, or nukes scrambled eggs so they taste like rubber, or uses goddamn stupid words like ' _ubiquitious'_ in Scrabble – regardless of their ridiculous breakfast debates like 'Han Solo: awesome BAMF or arrogant breeder-with-goat-mouths' – regardless of the way that right now Castiel is craning his neck to peer past Sam in a museum-worthy exhibition of his throat, dappled with dusky overnight stubble, a long stretch of taut skin, faintly tanned right down to his cotton T-shirt collar and the shadows underneath – Castiel is in love with Dean, not the other way around.

And as Castiel looks up, all downwards-tug of brow and mouth, that stupid birdie head-tilt and blue, blue eyes, Dean's throat chokes up, and he thinks that for an angel, love must feel a lot like falling.


	13. Chapter 13

_Padding slowly, foot prints sink deep. The snow is high here. Cold air swirls and bites sharp at Dean’s cheeks. He squints, blinded, and lifts a hand to shield his eyes. He must not get lost._

 

_Ahead, rising out of the icy grey mist, is a lighthouse. The beacon swings wildly. Opalescent light slices straight through the fog, almost clinical, and the light catches glinting on metal in the distance. That’s where Dean needs to go and that’s what keeps Dean dragging on._

 

_The bridge is wood reinforced with rusty horizontal slats of old iron. Unsalted. The lighthouse is estranged on a rocky island some ten or fifteen metres from the shore, and the path there is slick with ice. It’s odd – Dean has never before considered using rock salt for anything outside his world of the dead, undead, and just plain aggravating. He walks._

 

_The banisters, no more than rope twisted into dense, ragged plaits, are buffeted wildly by the wind, a kitten playing with an unravelling string. It’s dangerous and Dean is about to give up, turn around and blindly trudge home he when catches sight of the person at the base of the lighthouse. Their figure, small and thin, is repeatedly overwhelmed and revealed again by the clouds of snow and darkness that whirl over the island like frenzied dancers. The figure is close to the water._

 

_Dean is a hero. He has always, always been a hero. Did you know that he carried his baby brother out of a house fire? He got a cat down from a tree once. He can already imagine the clinging gratitude of his damsel in distress, wrapping her legs around him and saying ‘thank God you saved me I didn’t think anyone would come oh oh just hold me’..._

 

_The first step onto the icy bridge nearly sends Dean over the side, feet skidding out comically, and as he clutches the rope to his chest and battles back up, the wind catches up. Away from the protective walls that line this bitter Northern coast, Dean is completely exposed. The snow is merciless. It grabs him by the collar, the hem of his shirt, the sleeves – whips him raw and claws to drag away. Dean doesn’t give up. There is a swell in his gut that tells him without a doubt that this will be worth it._

 

_The figure by the lighthouse will be worth it._

 

_Every step is a war that he is losing, never finding the upper hand. His hands burn blue. He can’t feel his toes. He twists his ankle in the umpteenth attempt to save himself from going over, and where shocked tears instinctively spring to his eyes, icicles form. This girl better be bendy and enthusiastic and be, like, at least a DD._

 

_Then, at long last, he reaches the island. While the weather has not alleviated, here the concrete is level and the snow has melted to thin slush. Dean gives himself a moment to rest. The lighthouse beacon wheels and wheels overhead._

 

_By the edge of the lighthouse platform, the figure is standing immobile.  She is not as small or as fragile as Dean has believed – in fact, she does not even look like she needs rescuing. As Dean walks closer, his streaming snow-stung eyes pick out short, feathered hair and the snap of a long coat around narrow legs. This is not the person that he expected to see, but the disappointment of fading fantasies is nothing compared to the heady rush of relief and happiness that fills him. Everything is okay._

 

_Castiel’s expression is soft and fond when Dean comes to stand beside him. “Hello, Dean.”_

 

_“Sorry I’m late,” Dean says automatically. He is somehow abruptly aware that they had an appointment. His voice is whipped away in the wind and cast into the distance, but Castiel hears him._

 

_Castiel’s response is quietly spoken and so inaudible, but Dean understands him perfectly. They’re beyond words. Castiel is saying that his lateness is fine, and that now that he’s here, everything is ready. That he’s glad he’s here._

 

_They stand side by side, hands almost touching, while the snow rushes them, snags in their clothes and hair. They don’t speak. As they wait, the weather calms; the dark clouds bubble and froth before parting, clearing the sky like rolling back thick pearly fabric. The stars that emerge from behind are fuzzy and unromantic, made blurry by thin strips of pale green light that stretch and hang across the night._

 

_Dean glances over at Castiel, taking in the utter calm that he radiates. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the pinpricks of snow dotting his dark hair. Meltwater flattens his hair, trickles over his forehead, clings to the tip of his nose. He seems to feel that he is being studied. He meets Dean’s eyes with the barest twitch of a smile and says sternly, “Watch.” He gestures towards the sky. Dean obeys._

 

_The eerie strips of light that had previously dimmed the stars have grown and intensified, and are now unfolding in great bright coils above them. Twisting, meandering swirls of pale green and yellow trace patterns above them. Dean has never seen the Northern Lights before; he half didn’t even believe they were real. He has forgotten all about the cold._

 

_He couldn’t tell you exactly at what point they both shift unconsciously closer so that their knuckles bump and fingers brush, but it happens and Dean breathes shallow from the buzz of it. As a result of this, when Castiel turns to him again, close enough that Dan can feel his misty breath on his skin, and says, “Beautiful things_ do _exist, Dean,” with all the solemnity of the Last Rites, Dean doesn’t say ‘alright Dr. Phil’ or ‘you sound like Sammy on a chick-flick day’, like he thinks maybe he should._

 

_No, what he does instead is stare straight back at Castiel and say, “Yeah. I know.”_

 

_Beautiful things do exist. The lighthouse swings its glittering glow. Castiel’s eyes are very, very blue._

 

Dean jolts awake with a croaky yelp and for a minute he’s blindsided. He sits up on the couch breathing heavy like a triathlon-runner.

 

The library is pitch-black but shapes become clearer as Dean’s eyes adjust. Sam is face-down on Bobby’s camp-bed, snoring faintly, so he’s obviously still alive. It’s only when Dean’s grip on his knife relaxes that he even realises he has grabbed it. He wipes the dull blade on the corner of his blanket while he gets his breath back, then flips it and stows it back under his cushion.

 

The dream is slipping away in strings and pieces, leaving Dean with no more idea of what has happened than blue eyes and a chill right to his very core. He can’t tell if that is due to the cold – the fire in the hearth is no more than smoke and rubble now – or if it’s to do with the pounding in his stomach like he has lost a very important part of himself. A kidney, maybe. Dean makes a note to ask Sam in the morning if he has signed any of his organs off to be donated... he assumes not, seeing as he’s died a couple times now and never been resurrected minus a pancreas.

 

Brain bleary and incoherent, Dean rolls off the couch and staggers to the kitchen for a glass of water. He gropes blindly for the light but his desperate flick-flick-flick of the switch does nothing. “What the hell...” he mutters, attacking it more violently.

 

“The bulb is broken, I think,” a voice rumbles from the darkness.

 

Dean nearly craps himself. As it is, he does a weird one-foot ballerina hop backwards and grabs the nearest weapon – a dusty rolling pin – readying himself to smack out of the intruder... and then he recognises the voice. “Cas?” he hisses.

 

“Yes?”

 

Dean slumps, relieved. He puts the rolling pin back. “Jesus Christ, wear a bell or something,” he snaps. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

 

Castiel hesitates. Dean can see him now, clad in a too-big T-shirt and fraying sweatpants that barely stay up. He is leaning against the counter and he glances down into the sink before speaking. “The return of my Grace, albeit tarnished, makes it hard to sleep like a... human,” he says slowly.

 

“You have a bad dream, little Timmy?”

 

“I’m not-” Castiel stops and Dean can just picture his dumb  _I-don’t-understand-that-reference_ scowl. “No,” he says eventually. “I don’t know how to dream. I awoke choking on what seemed to be my own blood.”

 

The manner in which Castiel has replied is so dour and matter-of-act that Dean doesn’t take him seriously for a second. “Whoa, that’s pretty crazy,” he says with a chuckle. “I hate to burst your bubble, man, but I think you just lost your dream V.”

 

Castiel shook his head. “No, it’s true,” he says austerely. “That’s why I came downstairs.”

 

“Wait – what?” Dean splutters. He only now considers Castiel’s first glance down to the sink; Dean crosses and reaches down to scrape his fingers along the bottom of the porcelain bowl. His fingertips come up dark and wet. “Holy shit – Cas – are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine.” Castiel lifts a glass of water for Dean’s attention before sipping from it. “It is not—”

 

“Not of import?” Dean guesses. He makes a rough, irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Like hell is it not of freaking import, Cas. You can’t just start coughing up blood and act like that’s just fine and dandy usual behaviour for you!”

 

“I wasn’t coughing it up,” Castiel replies. “It was merely sitting in my mouth, stagnant and... bitter.” Now that Dean’s eyes are adjusting to the dark, he can see the challenging quirk of Castiel’s eyebrows. “Even if it were the case, how would your insistence that it’s not  _fine and dandy usual behaviour_  make any difference?”

 

Dean’s face scrunches up as he tries to find a way around what Castiel says. “  Well.” He pauses, glowering. “Fine. Whatever.” He sighs heavily, forcing himself to recognise that Castiel is almost as stubborn as he is and that he won’t admit to weakness. There’s nothing he can do except, come morning, try harder to fix him. “Pass me a glass, will you?”

 

Castiel obediently fills a glass from the teetering rack of dishes beside the sink and hands it to Dean. Their fingers accidentally fill all the same spaces.

 

“Oh – sorry,” Dean mumbles, changing his grip on the glass – just as Castiel does the same, and their fingers overlap again.

 

“My apologies.” Castiel lets go of the glass like he’s been burned, and yet somehow doesn’t think to step back. Dean could, he supposes, but he suddenly finds himself paralysed by Castiel’s proximity and all its connotations. Everything means more now, and here, in the dark, with so close that Dean can chart every contour of Castiel’s face, he is starting to feel more than a little flustered. Dean swallows hard around a lump in his throat. He raises his glass in an awkward toast and mutters, “Thanks.”

 

Castiel drinks too, as though they’re drinking to someone’s health, and Dean pauses with his glass at his mouth as he’s distracted by the smooth bob and pull of the muscles of Castiel’s throat. He roughly licks his lips – an action which is no way linked, by the way – and wonders.

 

“Why are you awake?” Castiel asks abruptly.

 

Startled, Dean immerses his face in his drink and downs the remainder of the water. “Uh,” he says, stilted. “I... had a weird dream.” His fingers play on the rim of the glass; he isn’t sure how to explain the feeling he had awoken with. Like he’d been holding something close and then it dissolved shapeless in his arms. “I can’t remember what happened. I just... woke up.”

 

“What does it feel like – dreaming?” Castiel stares right at Dean’s face. Even in spite of what Dean now knows and hides under, Castiel’s familiar, direct intensity is comforting. Dean settles, resting one hip against counter.

 

“I don’t know, man,” he says, being very vague and unhelpful. He sets down his glass and waves a hand ambiguously. “Most of the time it feels just like reality. Even when it’s kinda ridiculous.”

 

“Ridiculous how?”

 

“Like...” Dean concentrates on a distant memory. “Okay, so there’s this dream I used to have a lot when I was a kid. It would always start with me sitting on the exact same kitchen chair in our old house in Lawrence. Every time, the same chair. And then I wouldn’t be able to get up and Sammy would come in asking stupid questions like always, and I’d say ‘ _Jeez, I dunno, Sammy!_ ’And then suddenly I’d be at school – whichever school we were bullshitting our way through at the time, I guess – but I was still in the chair. And I couldn’t get up but it didn’t matter that I got yelled at or couldn’t play softball, because my chair could fly and – and then-” Dean trails off, realising that he’s rambling. No-one likes hearing about other people’s dreams, ever. It’s like a rule. “Then I, uh, don’t remember,” he excuses feebly.

 

Clearly an exception to that rule, Castiel appears to be genuinely enraptured by the dream, but at this ending he frowns. “You just... forget?” he asks dubiously.

 

“Well, yeah. It isn’t real. Who wants what isn’t real?”

 

When Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean peers at him through the gloom to measure his reaction, but the guy is just scratching absently at his twenty-four-hour scruff. Silence is growing thick and while Dean is normally, like Castiel, content to sit quietly and say nothing, tonight is different. Tonight the hush and the dark and the long, lean body propped against the counter next to him has got Dean all nervous and itchy; there is a heat under his skin, blood howling everywhere and slowly filling him in its entirety until his ears are filled with the roar of it like thunderstorms. He wonders, not for the first time, what Castiel’s mouth would taste like.

 

“So,” Dean says, inwardly flinching at the social clumsiness of starting a conversation with a long, drawn-out ‘ _sooo’_. “How is that you can’t dream anyway? Daddy hit you with the celestial insomnia stick or what? God knows you turn up in enough of mine – like, to give me messages and stuff, I mean,” he clarifies hurriedly. His ears burn.

 

“You’re correct in saying that I can enter the dreams of humans... it is, after all, very similar to Heaven – subconscious desire influencing the imagination in order to create sub-realities-”

 

Dean’s eyebrows lift. “Wow. Way to cockblock the whole afterlife, Cas,” he comments sarcastically.

 

Castiel throws him a hard look that sends all the wrong shivers climbing Dean’s skin. “You’re under no pretences about Heaven,” he states. “You expect nothing grand or meaningful – just whatever will keep you going through eternity. What more do you want me to say?”  He tips his head sharply, reprimanding Dean silently, and the jutting moue of his mouth is so sulky and childish and very not cute at all that Dean has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

 

“Go on,” he says, chewing the insides of his cheeks.

 

“Yes, I can enter human dreams,” Castiel begins again. Dean doesn’t like the way he keeps repeating ‘ _human’_. Each time reminds Dean that Castiel isn’t; each time cuts a little deeper. “However, while I can see and hear what is happening inside your head, I can’t... feel it.” Castiel looks up into Dean’s face to check that they’re on the same page. Dean nods. “I am there but as a spectator to something surreal and indistinct. It’s similar to watching television, in a way.”

 

“Huh.” Dean considers this. “Starring Dean Winchester,” he quips with a grin, spreading his fingers wide in a poor imitation of jazz hands.

 

“And the magic chair,” Castiel adds. The corner of his lips lift in a baby smirk but Dean just regards him blankly.

 

“What?”

 

Castiel’s smile falters. “The chair from the dream that you described,” he explains haltingly. “Your kitchen chair from Lawrence – you said—”

 

“Oh, right! Yeah. I hadn’t realised you were paying that close attention.”

 

Castiel doesn’t reply. He turns his head a little to gaze out the kitchen window, and Dean imagines his wings folding neatly behind him and arching high over his head, all at once sheltering and smothering.  He must miss Heaven a lot sometimes.

 

“Okay,” Dean says loudly – too loudly, as it serves not only to stir Castiel from his reverie but also evokes a sleepy groan from Sam in the other room. Dean lowers his voice and continues. “Okay – we’ve had  _my_ weirdest dream. Now what’s the weirdest dream you’ve ever watched?”

 

Puzzled, Castiel merely blinks at him; Dean sees the long sweep of eyelashes and then those eyes fix on him, blue as anything.

 

“Come on,” Dean insists, shoving lightly at his shoulder. Castiel doesn’t move, and Dean bounces off with bones juddering like he tried to punch a wall. Wincing a little, Dean elaborates. “You have to have burst into someone’s head who had something weird going on. I mean, even Anna burst in on me getting a weird angel-demon lap-dance. So spill.”

 

There is no change in Castiel’s ever-impassive features at the mention of Anna, except that maybe his eyes narrow infinitesimally. He presses his lips tight together in deep thought before answering. “There was a girl,” he says firmly, staring Dean down. There is a strength to his jaw, a glint to his eyes, that says he has taken this as a competition. “A prophet. She was in danger, as soldiers of Thrace were bearing down to take her as a gift to their King. It was a difficult task, as I was forbidden from destroying the enemy soldiers until they posed a physical threat. It had been said that the Thracian leader, a man possessed by a demon named Zelophe, was planning to come to her in a dream.”

 

“And did he?” Dean prompts. Having never heard anything of Castiel’s heavenly duties prior to the Winchester assignment, he is enthralled.

 

Castiel doesn’t chide him for interrupting again. He seems oddly cautious, as though he is too late in deciding that this might not have been the best story to tell. He pauses for a beat. “I thought so – to the extent that I laid the wrath of Heaven upon the entire encampment – but in the end... no.” He looks sour admitting this. “Needless to say, my superiors were not impressed.”

 

“Ouch.” Dean grimaces. He knows first-hand the full extent of just how douchey Castiel’s beloved superiors could be, and he doesn’t suppose that disobediently smiting half an army could have earned him a cookie and a pat on the head.

 

With a shrug, Castiel says dismissively, “I was young.”

 

That’s as bizarre a concept as ever. Young Castiel. Dean wants to picture some scrawny dark-haired kid, all dewy-eyed and solemn, but that’s just Jimmy Novak. Angel of the Lord, on the other hand... Dean shudders. “So what was the dream, then?” he asks, filing Castiel’s true form away in his head as a topic for another day.

 

“I was posing as the girl’s bodyguard at the time,” Castiel introduces. He inhales slowly, gathering courage, and continues with almost forced apathy. “In her dream, she killed me, set fire to my body and then, in the glow of my cremation, she... lay with the Thracian army.”

 

Dean is immediately glad that he has already finished his glass of water; otherwise he would have spat it all over Castiel. “The  _whole army?_ ” he splutters.

 

“The whole army.”

 

“She – holy shit – that is a  _lot_ of guys to bone. Was it like a small army, or—?”

 

“Ten thousand, I think.”

 

Dean tries in vain to suppress his hoot of laughter. “Jesus Christ,” he cackles, gripping the counter to support himself. “Even my dreams, at my absolute horniest, are never that bad.”

 

“It was a very long dream,” Castiel says stiffly, and the discomfort is so blatant in his voice and stature that Dean starts cracking up all over again.

 

A stream of swear-words drifts in from the library – a creative, colourful deviation from  _‘shut the fuck up Dean I’m trying to sleep’_.

 

“Sorry, Sammy!” Dean calls back in a stage-whisper, twisting to face the doorway, but when he twists back, Castiel is still standing rigid and awkward and Dean explodes into fresh peals of laughter just imagining the angel watching a massive ancient Greek orgy. He sinks to lean the small of his back against the counter, his stomach aching as his laughter grows slowly more subdued. When he looks up, even Castiel has cracked the biggest, dopiest, shit-eating smile that has Dean has ever seen, and there’s nothing that Dean can do except grin back.

 

“Oh, you creepy voyeuristic bastard,” Dean exclaims, shaking his head. “That must have been... wow.”

 

“You can see now perhaps why I assumed it was the work of the devil,” Castiel says grumpily.

 

“Oh, sure – Satan does love a gang-bang!” Dean drawls. It’s ridiculous – he can’t tell if it’s because he’s really tired or just hyped up on something – but he is dangerously close to giggling like a pigtailed schoolgirl. That’s just so wrong. Either way, Castiel looks faintly disapproving but the corners of his mouth still quirk up; he can’t help but be amused by Dean’s stupidity as he lets out a low whistle and teases, “Wow, no wonder you’re so uptight, man. That must have been traumatising for you, Mr. President of the Chastity Club.”

 

“I’m not uptight,” Castiel says, drawing himself up like an insulted peacock.

 

“Oh come on, you are such a prude,” Dean insists. “You couldn’t even get laid when you  _paid_ her—”

 

“That wasn’t my fault that she took offence,” Castiel retorts. He huffs, scowling. “I was... willing.”

 

“ _Bullshit._  I practically had to push you to even go with her!”

 

Castiel turns so that his hip balances against the handle of a kitchen drawer and he faces Dean like a challenge has been set. “I don’t understand this obsession of yours. My vessel has lain with women before and as a—”

 

“I swear to God, dude, if you say ‘genderless entity’ one more time, I’m gonna puke,” Dean tells him warningly, holding his hands out in front of him.

 

“Regardless of pledges to my father, and regardless of whether you want to hear it, it’s true. I have no need to lie with a human so—”

 

“It’s not about need.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not trying to get you to propagate the species or whatever, for Christ’s sake—”

 

“Especially as it isn’t my species,” Castiel chips in.

 

“Okay, smart-ass!” Dean shoves at him and is surprised to find that in spite of all his infinite strength and power, Castiel lets himself be pushed gently back in banter. “What I mean is don’t you  _want_ to?”

 

Tentative, Castiel says after a pause, “There are many things that I want-”

 

“But that’s not one of them,” Dean translates.

 

Castiel gnaws the side of his lower lip. His eyes flash nervously from Dean’s face and back again, via everything in the room. “Would you like to hear a joke?”

 

“What? Hey – no distraction techniques!”

 

“There are four shepherds on a hill and only three sheep, and so they begin to quarrel about the ownership of the sheep-”

 

Something dawns on Dean. “Oh God, this is an Enochian joke, isn’t it?” he says in horror over Castiel’s determined attempts to get through the joke.

 

“-the sky and says unto them, ‘ _lo, I am the archangel Michael and I have come to settle this dispute. Now each of you give me your reasons as to why you believe you should have a sheep.’”_

 

“No, no, no!” Dean steps forwards and grabs Castiel by the shoulders, shaking in a desperate, sleep-deprivation-giddy attempt to drag him bodily away from Biblical humour. “You’re not doing this. Not now.”

 

“-second and the third say the same, and at last the fourth shepherd says, ‘ _I deserve all three sheep because none of the other shepherds have the initiative to take as much as they can from a benevolent higher power’_  – to which Michael says, ‘ _go home, Lucifer!’_ ” Castiel finishes with a growing smile that is silly and endearing and full of expectant delight.

 

Dean groans loudly at what definitely wins the prize for the worst joke  _ever -_ and in a moment of dizzy, incoherent weakness, he says through a laugh, “Oh no, Cas, just stop talking”, and puts a hand firmly over Castiel’s mouth.

 

He only notices what he is doing when he feels Castiel grow impossibly still beneath his hand.

 

Shit.

 

No, it’s fine it’s fine he can change this he isn’t too late he can just pull his hand back and laugh change the conversation topic and move on – but he’s fixed. Every cell in his body is trembling inexorably towards Castiel, every nerve-ending quivering like he’s been building up to a sprint-start and the gun-shot is just a split-second away, waiting.

 

Castiel is frozen in the kind of perfect inertia that is only ever achieved by someone age-old who can watch a thousand years slip by in the blink of an eye. He stares back at Dean, blue eyes wider than Dean has ever seen them, wide with surprise and something like fear. His pulse beats thin and fleeting under Dean’s fingers. His mouth is pressed, lips parted, into Dean’s palm, but he has stopped breathing. Then – slowly – he exhales, like he’s been holding that breath tight in his throat for too long. It whispers across Dean’s skin.

 

Halfway between  _I should move my hand_ and  _why the fuck can’t I move my hand_ , Dean realises that he doesn’t want to.

 

Blood drums through Dean’s head with such force and violence that he thinks it could take him to the floor. Beyond the coarse rasp of stubble grating against Dean’s fingertips, beyond the slightly chapped lips, Dean can feel the wetness just inside Castiel’s mouth. Dean’s own is suddenly very dry – and he thinks maybe he should take that from Castiel, take everything he has, push him back against the counter and  _own_  him.

 

The dull click of Castiel swallowing seems to echo on and on. Dean’s hand slides across Castiel’s face, moving so that the tips of fingers burrow below the joining of ear and jawline where his blood beats desperately. Dean’s thumb snags the round of Castiel’s lower lip, and if there’s a hitched breath at the drag of Castiel’s mouth, neither of them could be sure whose it was.

 

This is the point at which anyone else than Dean has been with would react seductively, try to entice him by sucking his thumb into their mouth – but not with Castiel. Castiel is absolutely motionless, staring straight at Dean with that blazing intensity, all dark, dark eyes and silent reverence. Dean imagines that he must look the same to Castiel, with the intent unblinking way he’s staring right back, only he’s so much worse because for some reason  _Dean_  is the one standing inside Castiel’s personal space and  _Dean_ is the one touching him, cradling his jaw in one hand like he’s fragile, and  _Dean_ is the one wondering what if would be like to press in close and kiss Castiel hard.

 

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Sam complains loudly as he comes in.

 

Dean jumps back violently – his elbows knocks a saucepan from the dish-rack and it clatters on the floor tiles, ringing and ringing – he swears and fumbles for it on the floor.

 

“Jesus – sorry, Sam - I just – I was getting a glass of water,” Dean mutters.

 

He tries to put the pan back on the rack but it somehow won’t fit anymore; it knocks over a ceramic mug, causes a plate to slide down into the sink with a mighty crash, and the saucepan itself bangs back down onto the countertop.

 

“Goddamnit! Yeah. I couldn’t sleep. Cas, too. Uh. I’m done now.”

 

Dean hurriedly tries to sort out the dishes. His ears and neck are burning. He wants to get out of here as fast as possible – and this goddamn saucepan won’t freaking  _fit_ anywhere back on the rack without sliding off!

 

“Wow. These dishes are just all over the place, huh?” he mutters, forcing a laugh. He gives up and dumps the saucepan in the sink. Christ. “Phew. Wow. Uh.”

 

“That was the goddamn loudest glass of water I’ve ever heard,” Sam grumbles. He takes the mug that fell in the sink and fills it from the tap for himself. He is somehow oblivious to the palpable tension filling the room.

 

“I’m going now anyway,” Dean says feebly. “So. Yeah. See you later, I guess. Uh, goodnight, Cas.”

 

Still frozen, Castiel has not said a word. Dean, for once, can’t imagine the expression on his face. Would it be that pouting frown; that crumpled look of sadness; would he still be wide-eyed and stupefied, or playing calm innocence like Dean?

 

Dean doesn’t look up to find out.

 

He stalks back to the couch, where the fabric has gone cold, and burrows deep under his blankets. What the hell just happened? Dean made a big mistake, he knows that much, but there’s something more. It wasn’t just the awkwardness of knowing how Castiel feels that had made the moment so charged and volatile... it had been the paralysing static buzz that had coursed through Dean like he was going to die that did that – and it all stemmed from the touch of skin on skin.

 

_This is ridiculous_ , Dean thinks but, all the same, when he hears Castiel creep quietly back upstairs to Bobby’s guest room, Dean pretends to be fast asleep. Only once he has slipped past and once Sam too is back in bed does Dean open his eyes. His heart is racing and his mind won’t sit still for two seconds, being set instead on rolling through a montage of stills from the exchange just passed. The darkness of Castiel’s eyes, his stillness, the tiny crow’s-feet creases that linger like shadows even wide-eyed like that, the shape and feel of his mouth.

 

Dean doesn’t get to sleep for a long time, but when he finally drifts off, he goes with the conviction that he never should have crossed that bridge.

 

Castiel’s eyes are very, very blue.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean sleeps fitfully that night and wakes to the stifling silence that can only come of a blanket of a heavy snow on all external surfaces. It's relatively early but Sam's camp-bed is empty, and there is the murmur of hot water running upstairs. The windows are all fogged up with mist and condensation; the sky outside is pink.

Sam has clearly been up for quite some time, as the mug of coffee that stews on the kitchen table is cold and beside it, Sam's laptop is whirring patiently away. Dean glances at the screen as he goes past, expecting research or at the very least some whiney emo poems about Becky. No such luck. Displayed are the words ' _CODE MAROON – PROCESSING REQUEST'_.

Well, that's pretty weird even by Sam's standards. Last time Dean checked, Sam wasn't secretly part of the CIA – but then again, last time Dean checked, Sam thought Becky Rosen was an annoying little fangirl. Shit changes.

Whatever. Dean ignores it and gets his breakfast.

Sam comes in damp and red-faced from shower steam halfway through Dean's second bowl of Choco Wheaties, and the first thing that he does is ask too casually, "So what was happening with you and Cas last night?"

Eyes snapping up in a fixed glare, Dean replies, "Nothing was happening. We were talking."

"Huh." Sam's eyebrows have lifted irritatingly high on his smug little face. "Okay."

"What?" Dean demands.

Sam holds his hands out in front of him in surrender. "Nothing! When I came in, it just seemed a little... uh, a little flustered. That's all."

"Nope." Dean rocks onto the back legs of his chair, an exaggerated picture of ease and serenity. "No ' _flustering'_ whatsoever."

Sam's big dorky face gets this disparaging, almost sad look, and he says pityingly, "You're an idiot."

Typically Dean would argue but recently it seems like Sam is right. He clears his throat and instead seeks a conversation change. "So what's Code Maroon?"

After a quick glance into Dean's bowl, Mr. My Body Is My Temple apparently decides that he's too good for Choco Wheaties and goes to rifle through Bobby's cupboards for something healthier. "It's a system that Becky and I've sorted out-"

"Oh, ew. I do not wanna hear about your safe words, Sammy."

Sam bitchfaces at him. "No, Dean," he says snippily. "It's a system where if shit gets really bad on either side, one lets the other know – it's called Code Maroon because we agreed that maroon is a really underappreciated colour," he elaborates, mistaking Dean dead-eye  _could you be any more gay_  expression for genuine interest.

"Well, it looks super with the right shoes, Samantha," Dean says sarcastically.

Ignoring him, Sam continues. "Basically it means that we wipe any data on our phones and laptops that could link us to each other. So now whatever is going on here hunting Cas – if it turns on us, it can't use Becky."

"Oh."

"Then, when it's deemed to be safe – can you-" Sam extends a hand; Dean passes the milk into it. "- yeah, when it's safe, I'm gonna call her on a secondary phone that she's set up and get back in contact." He reels off a number that he's memorised and sits back looking proud of himself.

"Gold star for you," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of Wheaties.

Sam shrugs. "It's necessary."

Eyeing his brother across their respective breakfasts, it occurs to Dean that Sam is taking the relationship very seriously - like, contingency-plan-seriously. Dean says as much, except where it was intended to be a statement of fact, it comes out more like an accusation.

"Uh. Yeah." Sam says. He seems cautious, but he dismisses it all the same. "You know. I like her."

Dean rolls his eyes. Thank God – for a split-second he'd been worried that Sam was going to spill into the  _but-I-LOVE-her_  spiel. "Still, what if it happens again?" Dean pushes. He just can't let this go; it has crawled under his skin and nested there, spreading envy and concern and plain dark anger. "Do you have a third phone, or what?"

"Yeah, I know it isn't ideal but we've got it all sorted ou-"

"Okay, man, whatever – you're just gonna rack up a hell of a phone bill like that, you know, and-"

"What are you actually getting at, Dean?" Sam interrupts, setting his spoon down with a calm so forced that his knuckles are white.

"I don't know," Dean replies moodily. He shuffles in his seat and begins to regret having been so difficult. He can feel the conversation rapidly spiralling out of control; there is a long-winded discussion about their feelings brewing on the horizon. "I just don't get it, that's all. I don't see where this is going. Like... are you gonna keep doing this Code Maroon long-distance crap forever? Or are you gonna run away into sunset and adopt some Thai kids? I mean, it's not like I don't like Becky or whatever... she's proved herself to be okay, I guess. It's just. Well. If it didn't work for me and Lisa, then..."

"You and Lisa weren't right for each other," Sam cuts in. "When I was ... you know, gone – I thought she'd be good for you, and I guess she was, for a while. But she wasn't right."

"Okay, Oprah, thanks for the advice – lemme go put on my self-esteem booster bra now," Dean sneers, rolling his eyes. He scrapes his spoon around the bottom of the bowl, stands and heads over to the sink to wash up. "I'm just saying Sammy,  _right or wrong for my precious little heart,_  I gave it a real shot and-"

"Ignore me, whatever. It doesn't matter anymore anyway. It's over now. You're different. She's different. Okay, it didn't work out, and I'm sorry."

Sam's voice, previously soft and careful with treading around Dean's feelings, is suddenly tight with irritation. Dean stares at him, eyebrow raised. Sam lifts his chin, an age-old gesture of defiance that Dean recognises from when Sam was a kid and refused to share his toys. To Dean's eyes, Sam suddenly becomes all at once a little kid, dorky and stupid and clinging, and the man from the exact same mould as John Winchester who doesn't need Dean anymore. Sam's a moron. He thinks he's so grown-up and rebellious with his  _life_ and his  _girlfriend_ to go home to, but it's a crock of shit.

"But Becky and me, we've got a plan and we're gonna make it work. We're gonna get to next Christmas before we make any real decisions, but then we're gonna see how we feel and-"

Pretending to vomit into the sink at the word ' _feel_ ' as he cleans up his bowl, Dean says sardonically, "Your ambition and drive is endearing as ever, Sammy, but why don't you aim for  _this_  Christmas first?"

"It  _is_ Christmas, Dean."

Dean looks out the kitchen window, as though expecting a giant sign to be hung somewhere, reading  _IT'S CHRISTMAS, DUMBASS_ or something. The sun is low and hazy in the sky, streaked thin in watercolours. Dean retreats into his head for a second and counts days on his fingers. Twenty-fourth of December. Sam's right; somehow the holiday has crept up on Bobby's house. It doesn't feel like a momentous occasion though. It doesn't feel like anything.

"Well." Dean rolls his shoulders, feeling defensive of his own ignorance. He tilts his body away from the dirty dishes and drawls, "Merry Christmas, then-"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Dean. The point is, next Christmas we see how we feel, and then... and then... well, we'll have to cross that bridge when we get to it, obviously, but if we're still together..." he hesitates. "We can either keep doing this crazy, long-distance thing... or she could come with us on the road, do the research and stuff-"

Before Sam has even finished his sentence, Dean can already feel his face contorting into disapproval. Yeah, he likes Becky – but not  _that_ much.

"-or option three is to, uh. Well – uh, to – we thought of... of maybe sort of going domestic or something I guess I don't know it's dumb but you know it's just a sort of maybe kind of idea and-"

"What?"

"Well, like, you never know, that might not happen at all and we've discussed and everything so it wouldn't be like we'd go  _completely_  domestic like Harry and Sally or whatever because we could still do local cases and on weekends or days off work or something we could come and help you out with stuff and-"

"Wait, go  _domestic?"_  Dean demands. He doesn't have time to think about chilling out or happy places or even just restraining himself a little. Midway through rinsing his cereal bowl, he drops bowl and dishcloth into the warm soapy and spins to face Sam. "Come again?"

"Dude – like I said, we'll cross that bridge that bridge when we get to it," Sam pacifies.

"No, we can cross that bridge right now," Dean says angrily. He stalks back across the kitchen to stand over Sam, who leans back a little in his chair until the back of his head bumps up against the windowsill. "What the hell am I supposed to do, then? While you're off raking leaves in suburban Pleasantville, where am I?"

Wild, vague gesticulations flying, Sam attempts to excuse himself. "Look, it's just an idea, Dean."

"Only an idea – yeah, well, good, now get rid of it," Dean snaps. He holds up his hands in front of him; suddenly the roles have changed and he is trying to calm Sam down, make him see reason. "Look, man, it sounds nice but you gotta know it's a waste of time."

Sam's lips press tight together. "Dean, I appreciate your concern," he says, his tone indicating that  _'appreciate'_  was perhaps not the first word that had sprung to mind, "but I don't need you pushing  _your_ failures on  _me_."

" _What_?"

"Lisa!" Sam bursts out. "Lisa, goddamnit. Ever since you first found me, everything has been  _woe is me, Lisa and I can never be together_ , but for Christ's sake, Dean. You didn't even  _try_. You could have gone back to her and it could have worked. The real problem wasn't that her beautiful, Good Housekeeping-glossy and perfect existence was at odds with the hunting life – you just didn't give enough of a crap. You left them and you never went back. Now I'm not judging you for that, and it's stupid but I also don't honestly care if you spend the rest of your life moping around and calling her pointlessly to bother her about her new life, but I think you should get over it. And I think you should  _definitely_  stop using your own failures as a reason to tell me why  _my_ relationship won't work out!"

"This has got nothing to do with me," Dean retorts. "I'm just looking out for you here, Sammy. I don't want you to get hurt, that's all – but you have to see that it's never gonna work – you should know that better than anyone!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Dean has gone too far. "You know!" He can't escape now. He flails a hand hopelessly, thinking that maybe if he's ambiguous and confusing then he won't have to say it. Sam is staring at him with a hard blankness as though he is deliberately being obtuse, forcing Dean to say the unthinkable and become the bad guy. "Jess!"

Yes, it's definitely a mistake. Sam stands up, knocking his chair back against the wall, and crowds into Dean's space. His eyes flash with a barely-contained rage that Dean hasn't seen his blood-junkie days.

"Hey, don't give me that look – you know I'm right!" Dean says, knowing that there is no way out of this now. He has dug a hole and he's gonna damn well bury himself in it. "We both know that backing up and living the Mr. Smith life will never, ever cut it. You with Jess, me with-"

"If you mention Lisa again, I swear to God, Dean, I am gonna kill you." Sam's voice is low and menacing. "Lisa is different. You just couldn't stick staying with her. Lisa didn't  _die_!"

Dean doesn't want to say it but, stupidly, he thinks that if he does, then maybe Sam will stay. And that's worth anything.

"If you couldn't protect Jess," he challenges childishly, "what makes you think you'd be able to protect Becky?"

He is expecting to be punched - so when Sam does deck him, Dean is ready and it doesn't hurt as much. Still, the brute force behind it knocks Dean down a peg and brings out bright white spots behind his eyes.

When he rolls back, Sam is staring at him, upset but unsympathetic. "You deserved that," he says unhappily.

Well, Dean won't debate that. As he massages his throbbing jaw, he says, "Sammy, I'm just saying that I don't see how it could work."

"You think I don't know that?" Sam exclaims. "Because I do. I know that, but so what – I've gotta be miserable for the rest of my life?"

Frowning, Dean balks at that. "You're not miserable!"

"Okay, not miserable, but come on, Dean! I want something more in my life than just this every day. Alright, yeah, maybe not Stanford. Maybe that was a little ambitious. But... I don't know, I just want something to look forward to – I want to know that there is more waiting for me at the end of the day than just... just eating salad in another greasy diner with  _you_!"

Dean flinches instinctively like he's been slapped. In the same millisecond, Sam's eyes fly wide, realising the acerbity and blatant rejection in his words.

For the longest thirty seconds in all humanity, neither of them speak. The temperature in Bobby's kitchen seems to have all at once peaked and dropped sub-zero.

"Well," Dean finally says. "You could buy a damn burger or something for once." He tries to dismiss Sam's cutting revelation as nothing, but his words come out as no more than a feeble mutter.

"Look – man, I didn't mean that," Sam starts awkwardly. He reaches out for Dean's elbow but Dean leans out of the way, shoulders hunched high and rigid.

"No, it's fine. I get it." Dean attempts nonchalance or at the very least apathy, but his tone comes out cold. He sounds like a bitter teenage girl who just got ditched at the prom for some Big-Boobed Bitch. Jesus, it's pathetic. And Becky only has tiny tits anyway. Dean drags a hand tiredly over his mouth. "Really, Sam. It's fine."

He scoops his forgotten dishes out of the sink and balances them on the rack to dry, soapy residue glittering dully. Then he heads through to the library without another word, and Sam doesn't stop him.

As he goes in, the sound of odd, romantic crooning floats towards him, which Dean identifies as being sourced from a brightly coloured Disney cartoon. Castiel is seated on the couch, avidly watching. He looks up when Dean enters and regards him with the dim, hollow eyes of a sleepless night. He looks pale and drawn – he needs more of Bobby's medicine, stat – and Dean gets a sudden, overwhelming desire to join Castiel. Crawl under his arm, burrow into his bones and sleep forever.

And he could do that. He really could.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asks, all rough and scratchy with morning in a way that gets right under Dean's skin.

A lump tightens in Dean's throat. Every inch of his body is still tingling with the sharp electric sting of Sam's choices, winding him tighter and tighter, and the concern playing only across Castiel's face just brings back everything that had yesterday rendered him totally stupid. He swallows hard and ignores the well-meant question in favour of picking a fight – another one. "What the hell are you watching?"

Castiel glances back at the screen dubiously as though he has completely forgotten what he is doing. "The Little Mermaid," he says at last.

" _Why?"_

"I enjoy the music... and I suppose I can sympathise with the mermaid's situation."

"Christ, seriously? Ariel? Look, if you're gonna feel for fictional characters, here's a general rule – you don't choose the chick with a tail." Dean can already feel that bitter menace cutting into his voice.

Castiel frowns. "Why not?"

"You just...  _can't_!" Dean bites out. "Jesus, I can't teach you how to be human, Cas!"

And, unexpectedly, Castiel snaps.

"Dean, I'm sorry that I'm alien to you. I'm sorry that my own struggles to find the good in humanity have given me the ability to empathise with those same struggles of an animated mermaid," he says coldly, muscle jumping in his jaw with fierce irritation, "and finally, having overheard your loud, disruptive quarrel with Sam, I'm sorry that you no longer feel needed by anyone – but you will _not_  take your disappointment out on me."

Dean feels he has crossed a line somewhere. Castiel is angry in a way that he's never seen before – not the shaking, violent rage at betrayal; not the claustrophobic, slow-burning frustration of his Father's failure... more than anything, there is a steely glint somewhere in his eyes that looks a lot like hurt. Dean could say sorry. He could say that he went too far. He could say  _what's wrong Cas? You look like shit, man._ He could take all the good things that Castiel throws at him, instead of letting them collect, roll up and decay in the dirt, and maybe Dean could toss something back. Dean could look after him.

No, he doesn't say or do any of that. Instead, he gives a short, douchebag laugh and sneers, "Well, damn, Cas, you must be more human than you think. Who taught you to be such a whiney little bitch?"

At that moment, Sam comes storming in from the other room. Clearly the thought of backing off and letting Dean stew isn't working out too well. "Dean, shut up!" Sam grabs his shoulder and shoves him, glaring. He then looks over to Castiel and adds, "Just ignore him, Cas, he's being an asshole."

"Don't worry about it, Sam," Castiel says. There is a strange, detached animosity to his words as he stares vacantly at the television set. "I'm not concerned – he wouldn't be Dean if he wasn't." He twists his head now to gaze at Dean like a pissed-off owl, his eyes still in that kind of unsettling quiet which means that everything seems fine and dandy, but shit is about to seriously go down. A tendon is pulled tight in his throat.

A low growl builds somewhere in Dean's chest and vibrates there dangerously. He considers swinging out and decking both of them, but Sam is looking particularly tall and moody today, and Castiel would probably smite him on principle.

"Well, this is just  _super,"_ Dean says angrily, folding his arms high across his chest. "I hate to break up your little bitch-fest, but I'd really appreciate it if you could stop your emotional tie-dying of the I Hate Dean Winchester Club jackets for just one second – then maybe we could actually get some goddamn work done so that Cas can fuck back off to the Land Before Time." He scowls at each of them respectively and lifts his eyebrows, waiting for protest. "How does that sound?"

Sam exhales in one sharp, irritated burst like he's trying to huff and puff and blow and house down, but he nods. "Okay," he says. "What's the plan, then?"

Having got at least  _one_ of them to form some sort of of an agreement to behave themselves, Dean twists to glare a challenge at Castiel.  _Throw a hissy fit,_  he prompts mentally.  _Go on, I dare you._

Castiel either isn't a telepath or he's just an asshole... either way, he folds his arms in a way that almost identically mirrors Dean, despite somehow seems awkward and unnatural, and he sets his mouth in a flat, unimpressed line, choosing instead to sit in a moody silence and wait for Dean to speak. Dean isn't quite satisfied with that as far as apologetic submission for being a little bitch goes, but he senses it's as good as he's going to get.

"I say we pay a visit to good ole' Sheriff Mills," Dean says, unfolding his arms to stick deep in the pockets of his jeans. "She was away last time I looked but you never know, she might have had homesickness pangs and come home for The Lakehouse and a bubblebath – or whatever it is chicks do, anyway."

"If not, we could still check out the library and the police station," Sam adds, his shoulders relaxing into a slightly less hostile position as he settles into the task at hand. If he realises that Dean is deliberately ignoring everything he says, he doesn't show it; if anything, he continues with sickening cheer, "I'll just grab Dad's journal from the kitchen and then we'll go-"

"Pray tell, go  _where_?"

Dean, Sam and Castiel's heads all snap around to stare sheepishly at Bobby. He's standing in the doorway from the hall, arms folded and glowering at them all suspiciously.

"Uh," Dean starts insightfully.

"Just out to have another look at the sigil under the porch," Sam cuts in easily. "We thought we might have missed something." He looks over at Castiel and jerks his head sideways in a  _up-and-at-'em_  gesture.

However, as soon as Castiel hauls his long, narrow body to its feet, Dean says loudly, "Actually, Cas, didn't you wanna talk to Bobby about your meds?" He nods helpfully in Bobby's direction, and even shoots Castiel a brittle smile. "Go shoot up; we'll see you out front. Come on, Sam."

Castiel blinks, looking a little lost, but stays obediently put while Dean and Sam slip outside. As they're trotting down the porch steps, Dean fishes his keys out of his pocket and jingles them in one hand. Dean unlocks the car; he and Sam both look behind them for Bobby in a simultaneous, instinctively-connected glance, and then slide into the front seats.

The Impala grumbles to life and idles patiently. Dean doesn't wait. He puts his baby into gear and steers her out before Bobby can say a damn about it.

"Are we leaving Cas behind?" Sam says awkwardly after a moment.

By this point they are already speeding down the main road to Sioux Falls, the slopes and spikes of Singer Salvage Yard dwindling behind them. Dean's eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror and he feigns surprise. "Well, will you look at that," he says. "It sure appears so, huh, Sammy?"

Sam props an elbow on the windowsill and turns in his seat to stare at Dean. "What the hell is going on between you and Cas anyway?"

"Oh, we're gonna elope to Paris and live together as husband and wife. Did I not tell you that?" Dean looks over pointedly. "Weird. That's the kinda thing you'd think I'd mention at some point, right?"

With a heavy sigh, Sam seems to realise that he will not get anywhere. They drive on in stony silence and it is Sam who eventually sticks Mot _ö_ rhead in and turns the volume up.

Sioux Falls has that endearing small-town habit of not clearing snow away so the roads are slush and puddles; they drive slowly. Startlingly bright sunlight shatters on frosted windows, falling in neat sharp splinters on sills and fence-slats. Children are scrambling on black ice and they shriek, delighted as they slide like penguins. Dean thinks of Ben Braeden, wrapped up in hideous, embarrassing wool for winter. He turns up the music.

When they pull up outside Jody's house, the living room looks dark. Dean peers through the Impala for a while, trying to work out if that's a  _lights-turned-out-for-festive-effect_ kind of lights-out, or just... lights-out. It's bizarre.

Dean shuts off the engine and yanks the keys out. In one fluid movement, he swings out of the car and slams the door, and he turns back around to find himself face-to-face with Castiel.

"She's not in there," Castiel says, squinting a little in the harsh light.

Shoulders still hunched up defensively after having near-enough crapped his pants at Castiel's sudden, unexpected proximity, Dean scowls. "Cas, do you have any understanding of the idea of deliberately avoiding someone?" he says sharply, gaze fixed on the front facade of Jody's house, because he's got too much self-control to let himself look at someone he could so easily fall back into.

"No," Castiel replies, and  _shit,_ someone  _must_  be teaching him how to do that behind Dean's back, because there is no way that Castiel has picked up that cold, cutting sarcasm by himself. "I don't. Please explain."

Thankfully, Sam does something useful for once in slamming the car door as loudly as possible and walking up between them with a loud, "Hey, Cas! Looks like you've definitely got your mojo back, then! What's going on?"

"Jody still isn't at home," Castiel says. He drags his eyes reluctantly over to Sam.

Scratching his head, Sam lets out a long, frustrated breath. "Damnit. Should have seen this coming."

"What?"

"You said those other cops told you she was away visiting family, right?" Sam says, looking over at Dean with a sympathetic grimace. "Well, come on. It's Christmas – and her whole immediate family is... yeah. You know." Sam plunges his hands deep into his jeans' pockets and peers up at the empty house before them. "She'll have somewhere better to be and she more than likely won't be back for a good few weeks yet."

Dean sulks. He kicks at a loose chunk of black ice. "Well, this blows." He puffs his cheeks out, rubs his hands together to warm them up. "Still, she ain't the only cop in town. We might as well go down to the station anyway. Someone's gotta be on duty."

"That seems a sensible suggestion," Castiel says solemnly with the slight head-incline that, for him, translates into enthusiastic acquiescence. "Let's go."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You coming in the car this time, Tweety, or-"

The cold swell of wings and winter air that buffets Dean back a step and bends his side-mirror off-centre answers that question pretty well. Dean swears under his breath, glancing wildly up and down the street – nope, Castiel is definitely gone. "Dumb feathery show-off bastard idiot," Dean mutters. He fixes his side-mirror, wiping away a small smudge of dirt from the glass as he does so, and swings into the front-seat.

"Cut him some slack, man," Sam placates beside him. He flips absently through the worn, brittle pages of their dad's journal for the millionth time. "He just got his grace back. I think he's allowed to show off a little."

The Impala roars into action, frightening a nearby cat. Sam is still watching Dean carefully out of the corner of his eye like he's supervising a roadside bomb, just waiting for him to explode in a chaotic, earth-destroying blast of unrequited love and sadness. Dean punches the radio on and they drive.

When they get there – after a short pit-stop at a nearby gas station, using the restrooms to sneakily suit up – the police station is strung from ceiling to floor with gaudy, multicoloured tinsel in a disappointing attempt to distract the working cops from the fact that they got the Christmas shift. Castiel turns up as they arrive, the gust of his wings knocking over a potted plant, and Dean uses the diversion to snaffle an apple strudel from the front desk.

Time to shine. Sam belts up his Big Boy Pants and asks all the questions; Castiel stands there, scowling and looking faintly suspicious of the festive decorations; Dean eats. However, aside from being better fed, the three of them leave an hour later not having gained anything. Jody is away with family in Minnesota somewhat indefinitely, beyond contact having broken her cell phone and only given her new number to emergency contacts, and the most sinister thing to happen in Sioux Falls in a while is a tricycle theft. In short, they're jackshit-short of information.

"Don't you just love it when your whole day is wasted?" Dean complains on the drive back. "So far the only thing we've learnt is that Jody isn't here and that somewhere there's a Little Toddler That Could who can't."

"At least we know that it's not localised – it's just focusing on Cas," Sam reminds him.

Dean smacks a hand down onto the steering wheel. "Great. We knew that already! Come on, admit it: we're getting nowhere."

"Have faith." Castiel has suddenly appeared in the backseat – Dean fights down a childish yelp and tries to keep the car driving in the right lane, knuckles clenched white on the wheel. "We will find something."

"Excuse me?" Dean lifts his eyes to stare incredulously at Castiel in the rear-view mirror. "I'm sorry, Anakin, I guess you've just  _forgotten_ about your cute little rage black-outs!"

"I haven't forgotten, Dean," Castiel responds sourly. "However, as long as my Grace has returned, the situation looks infinitely more hopeful."

Sam nods enthusiastically. "Cas is right. It might not look good at the moment but we'll be fine as long as Cas keeps taking his pills and we keep researching-"

Dean glances over at Sam, face screwed up in confusion. Castiel also seems to be three steps behind on a different planet; from the back, he rumbles, "What pills?"

"Uh. You know. The medicine that Bobby's giving you?" Sam twists in his seat so that he can flicker quickly from looking at Dean to Castiel and back again. His forehead creases, bewildered. He's unconsciously breaking out the puppy-dog face that has devastated so many middle-aged women over the years.

Stanford or not, Sam looks kinda like an idiot right now. "Cas isn't taking any pills," Dean says witheringly. "Bobby's making him chug whole bottles of some weird anti-demon mix he's made up himself. Where the hell have you been the past few weeks – oh wait. Never mind." Dean swings back to face the front and changes gear with a little more acceleration and force than is perhaps entirely necessary.

Heaving a short, frustrated sigh, Sam makes a great effort to ignore the jibe. "I dunno. I just..." His nose crinkles up uncertainly. "I don't know where else I was all the time, but I don't think I've ever actually been there when Cas was dosing up."

They don't discuss it any further. In fact, they don't speak at all, aside from Sam wondering aloud if Bobby counts as an  _emergency contact_ for Jody to leave her cell number with, and, later, when they're nearing the interstate, recommending that they stop off by a grocery store so that they have a legit excuse for leaving the house when Bobby inevitably blows up on them later.

They buy bread and eggs and milk and whiskey; for all appearances, they seem contented. Normal, even. There are giveaways though.

Sam buys a postcard and a new SIM-card for his phone, while he forgets to grab a pie from the pastry aisle as he drifts past; Castiel can't understand how to work the sliding freezer doors and refuses to ask for help; and Dean goes to help him anyway, tells him to stop being such a stubborn jack-ass and grow a pair – and Dean accidentally covers Castiel's hand with his own and doesn't immediately think to move away because his fingers are cold from opening the freezer and Castiel's are all warm – and then Castiel steps closer, blue eyes and forehead crease and dry lips, breath washing over Dean's face cool and quiet, takes the bag of frozen peas from Dean's hands and goes to put it in the basket.

Not another word.

Castiel disappears with it down another aisle. Dean stares after him. Then he turns and slams the freezer door shut because the goosebumps lifting even under his shirt and jacket are purely from cold. The tension and grievance in the air is thick enough that every spoken word bites at the edges of it, and any other patron in this aisle or the next can feel the broken hum of it, but don't say a damn thing.

If they did, they'd probably start with the way the dark one and the bitter one trace matching silent steps back to their muscle cars and end with the way their fingers unconsciously pinch each other's sleeve as they brush past. But, then again, they don't say a damn thing.


	15. Chapter 15

Dean wakes up that night to the creak of floorboards. Without even cracking his eyes open, he knows that there is someone standing over him, watching, waiting. Dean is suddenly alert and as focused as he's ever been. His brain spirals wildly beyond his control, planning his next move. He comes to several conclusions at once.

Firstly, the intruder is not Sam.

Secondly, Sam is still snoring soundly, oblivious, on the far side of the room. He's okay.

Thirdly, the intruder is small of stature, lightly-built and unarmed.

Lastly, Dean will have time to reach his knife from under a couch cushion before the intruder can respond in kind.

And so Dean does. In an almost graceful, rehearsed chain of motions, Dean attacks – kicks off his blanket, rolls one leg off the couch, slips the knife out, uses his free hand to sweep the intruder's knees out from underneath him, sits up, grasps him by the forearms, twists and throws him – and then, like that, it is over.

Breathing laboured with adrenaline but convinced of his own victory, Dean pins the intruder to the flat of the couch, one knee either side of his body, and presses the knife tight against his throat. However, as he glares down at his new victim, Dean abruptly realises that in all his frantic deducing and formulation of an attack plan, he somehow missed out on the most important detail.

It's Castiel.

Dean slowly lowers the knife. The words  _what the ever loving fuck were you doing you asshole_ spring to mind but are not voiced – because with the realisation of the intruder's identity comes the realisation that it is Castiel,  _his_  scrawny, dorky blue-eyed Castiel, who is trapped beneath him - demon-smiting, all-powerful angel of the Lord Castiel, who, with power that enables him to throw Dean through the air and through a solid wall, is  _letting_ Dean hold him captive and vulnerable.

Dean is going to stand up. Apologise. Crack some stupid joke, because that's what he always does. He really is going to... eventually.

For now though, he's distracted by the ragged murmur of Castiel's breathing and the long narrow planes of Castiel's body, tensed beneath him. So yeah, maybe Dean's wondering again what he tastes like – what he looks like under that too-big faded band T-shirt – what he's made of. Castiel's pulse rushes thick and wanting under his skin, beating fiercely against Dean's fingers and the cold silver of the knife blade. What does that mean – for an angel?

"Uh," Dean starts faintly, his voice cracking on his tongue. "What're you..."

Castiel's wide, dark eyes flicker down to fix on Dean's mouth obsessively, hungrily. Okay, Dean knows what  _that_ means. Dean gulps. He has completely lost control of the situation. All systems are failing under the influence of the desperate blood in Castiel's veins and the starved look in his eyes as if in two thousand years he has never wanted anything more.

In a raw, instinctive gesture, Castiel wets his lips.  _Shit._

Castiel loves him, really loves him, and Dean's been fighting it with sharp words and split-knuckle punches, but he thinks now that maybe it's something he could just let sweep over him and settle. Maybe he could even push back, give back, and be a part of this. Maybe he could  _do_ something. Dean's mind has gone startlingly, blissfully blank and he only knows that right now he is achingly, impossibly hard and he wants everything that Castiel has – more, even.

Dean leans in close and carefully presses a kiss to Castiel's mouth.

The kiss is unlike any other than Dean has bestowed in many respects. It's the first time that he's kissed a man, regardless of whatever silly doctor fantasies he may have had before in snatched alone time. It's Castiel's first kiss ever – and as a general rule, Dean doesn't do First Kisses, because the recipients are always clumsy and awkward, all toothy and spit-slick and nervous giggling and  _am I doing this right?_  It's also different in that Castiel is filling none of the aforementioned stereotypes. He's completely still, his lips plush and dry and slightly chapped, and he does not react. He does not breathe. And lastly, finally, the kiss is world-changingly unusual in one final respect - Dean has never, ever kissed anyone so gently before. Cautious and reverent and feather-soft, like they're glass dolls. Dean could shatter.

He pulls away without even the film-star smack of lips and that's that, over, done – but then, as he draws back, something happens. Castiel's head tips up, searching, his lips part and a word – a name – whispers out like a dying breath: " _Dean_."

The knife falls from Dean's hand, bounces once, handle facing down, on the couch, and then disappears somewhere under the coffee table – and the empty fingers that it leaves behind slide up the cool side of Castiel's neck instead, curling into the fine dark hairs at the nape.

With one short chuckle that's more a huff of air than laughter, Dean murmurs, "Stop talking, dumbass."

He says no more than that – just crushes his lips back into Castiel's with a desperation and hunger born of months and months of denial and awkward refusal to recognise what was right in front of him. Castiel understands now, mouth open and moving. They're wet and messy, push and pull of tongues and clink of teeth, but Castiel's almost quivering with need and is in no way lacking in enthusiasm.

Their mouths fit together  **–**  every breath Castiel takes is a sigh Dean drinks in, all at once sinking and weightless at the feel of Castiel's lips shifting urgently against his, the pressure of his tongue and a harsh, bitter taste like salt and darkness. Dean's other hand moves up to Castiel's waist and anchors there, feeling the warmth and give of human flesh that is all Castiel's now. He's held back from Dean by mere millimetres and faded cotton but no, Dean wants more – wants skin on skin and sweat and Dean's name on Castiel's lips again like a prayer. He slips a hand under the ragged T-shirt hem, sweeping calloused fingers over his stomach and hips and gripping him tight. It isn't enough; nothing feels like it will ever be enough for this thing between them.

Dean pulls his lips away, breathing hard and revelling in the reluctant gasp that tears from Castiel's mouth as he is left behind. Dean plants a kiss on the jut of collarbone above Castiel's shirt, then another, sliding up along the muscle pulled taut in Castiel's throat. He follows the trail all the way up to the base of Castiel's jaw where blood beats strongest; Dean opens his mouth. Breathes once, heavy and wanting, against the skin and then licks, sucks, bites. The responding noise that Castiel makes unconsciously in the back of his throat is low, animal and vulgar; Dean almost loses himself entirely. Fuck. He pants heavy, one quick short gasp, pushing his forehead into the crook just below Castiel's ear and instinctively rolls his hips forward against him.

Castiel's breath snags. He's new, inexperienced, fresh off the celestial Chastity Club, but Dean can feel his cock straining desperately against fabric for him. Dean rolls again, slowly this time, and taking care to line up so that they slot together perfectly _. It's okay_ , he's saying in the way he moves, the way he draws back to kiss him open-mouthed and filthy.  _This is what humans do_.

There's the slip and slide of bodies, the breathless gasps snatched from Dean's lungs because Castiel is getting the hang of this now – sucking Dean's lower lip in like he owns it, and fuck,  _fuck_ , the way he moves in response to Dean, call and echo, rocking with it, the lines of his body long and solid and aching. Castiel isn't passive anymore; he's learning and he's eager and he's hungry. He pushes both hands up below Dean's shirt, skating cold hands over warm skin, fingers digging in tight enough to bruise when Dean pushes back against him.

Dean is losing it. One arm is crooked over Castiel's shoulder, planted on the couch next to his head, and it's trembling so violently that he fears he may just collapse onto Castiel in a messy heap of nerves and desire. There is a white-hot pulse behind Dean's eyes, a pounding low in his stomach, and a desperation building in his gut like he's going to burst from sheer want. He's painfully hard, dry-mouthed and in love with the way Castiel's hands glide possessively over his chest and stomach, the way he licks the profanities from Dean's mouth, the way his hands come to cradle Dean's skulllike he never wants to let go.

Shit, Dean can't do this. He's quivering with need on a dangerous precipice, seconds from falling. He's thirty-something and lonely and he ain't got the stamina he used to and the fierce, dark expression in Castiel's eyes is almost enough to make Dean want to finish right here and now. Castiel keeps moving, which isn't helping at all; each roll drags them together with a rush of heat so exhilarating that Dean groans deep in Castiel's mouth and wants to just push back into it harder and faster until, until, until – but no, not yet, and he grabs Castiel by the sharp bones of his hips to slow him.

"I – Cas," he mutters blindly.

Castiel's growl starts low in his chest in his chest and reverberates dangerously throughout his body. Then, with the faintest rush of feathers and cold wind, the library tilts and things have changed; Dean is thrown back against the arm-rest of the couch and Castiel is leaning over him, eyes wide and flashing.

Dean stutters a strangled attempt at words, but then Castiel crashes into him like endgame – grips his shoulders so tight that his fingernails dig in, leave neat little crescent-moons in his skin; pushes him down and holds him there with an angelic strength that's two parts mind-blowingly hot and one part terrifying – and shoves against him.

Heat spikes through Dean too fast to be restrained and he can do nothing but tip his head back and let the groan rip from his mouth, buzzing. One hand falls by the wayside; the other fumbles hopelessly for Castiel. Fingers twine into his shirt, drag him closer so they're lying flush, every inch of their bodies pressed tight together. Castiel responds in kind, yanking Dean's T-shirt up, and it gets caught around his armpits and shoulders, arms all tangled together, but Castiel's impatient. He pushes up the cotton with his fingertips, finds the taut stretch of Dean's throat and bites. Clenches the skin between his teeth until Dean gasps aloud and then some, until Dean's vision whites out and he has no sense of what he's doing except that he violently grinds down on Castiel's thigh.

Castiel exhales sharply. Every muscle in his body pulls tight, resisting – the lines of his back and shoulders whisper  _no thank you_ , he's in charge at the moment - as he sweetly touches kisses to Dean's skin where it burns and throbs with pain, the aftermath of Castiel's enthusiasm. He pulls back, lips red and swollen, and snatches a kiss from Dean's mouth, and another, and another, sinking deeper, his tongue spelling out all the ferocious,  _despicable_  things he could do to Dean.

Somehow, this has changed without Dean's notice – from watching Castiel unravel, fine stern soldier, to being forced into submission, shaking dangerously and thinking, shit,  _shit,_  but he needs real, corporeal contact now or he thinks he might die. His breath is short, spasmodic gulps. He wants to take Castiel back as his but he is so undone that he can't even prop himself back up on his elbows. There's no escape. This is inevitable. Castiel moves over him, a tantalisingly slow grate and grind; he presses his hot, open mouth to the curve of jaw, panting wet against the salt skin. His tongue darts out to taste it, traces too lightly – and shit fuck  _fuck_  Dean absolutely cannot take this anymore.

"Cas—" It bursts out of him, a strained, desperate plea.

He can feel himself subconsciously spreading his legs like a goddamn two-penny whore but really, all dignity is long gone. All that matters now is the screech of blood deafening in his ears and under his skin, and the desire stoked up so high he can hardly breathe. Castiel shifts like he's going to push into Dean again; Dean's hips buck in anticipation, drawn tense as the coil of a spring... but then Dean suddenly is stilled when he sees Castiel's hand drifting slowly down the length of Dean's body fingertips lightly grazing the skin, muscle, bone, and then snagging carefully on the elastic waistband of Dean's boxers. So fucking close – Castiel's hand comes to rest, palm pressing down lightly on the urgent bulge through fabric.

Something embarrassingly close to a whimper rises on Dean's lips. "Cas – Cas—" he tries, but he cuts himself off with a low moan that vibrates through them both; Castiel digs down with the heel of his hand and drags upwards. The heat spiralling up through him is intense enough to make Dean see flickering lights behind his eyes – his hands search for Castiel, clinging to his neck and shoulders as he gasps breathless against his skin.

A loud groan rumbles from the darkness – not Castiel.

Dean freezes.

Then there is the high-pitched squeal of bedsprings.

Maybe Sam won't notice.

Then, a bleary voice muttering, "Whaz goin' on?"

_Maybe._

Then a light clicks on, and then: " _Oh –_ oh Jesus Christ! I'm – so sorry. Wow. Oh my God. Oh...  _my God_."

If anyone is ever wondering, as far as bone-deep, soul-crushing embarrassment goes... having your dorky little brother catch you dry-humping a warrior of God is pretty high up there.

Dean's eyes close, agonised. Once... just  _once_... he would really,  _really_ like to get to make out with Castiel without Sam interrupting.

He can feel every cell in his body lighting up bright red like a guilty, horny traffic light and he is frozen. He can't even bring himself to take his hands off Castiel – and the worst part is that he doesn't even want to. He's still buzzing with lust and desperation, and if Sam just turned out the light and magically fell stone-cold asleep again, Dean would be straight back at it. As it is, however...

"Sammy," Dean starts, and flinches a split-second later when his voice comes out scratchy and hoarse, and worst of all, breathless. He's going to need a minute to get under control again and Castiel certainly isn't helping by readjusting his kneeling position – and casually pushing into Dean in a way that has him clenching his lower lip between his teeth to hold back a moan that Sam would really, really not appreciate. Trying to think of naked mole rats and Bobby and human brains, Dean fights to get his breath back, opens his eyes and clears his throat. "Sam – can you just—"

"Sam Winchester," Castiel says slowly, as if he is savouring the words. He sits up, tall. Dean looks up in surprise at the hostile timbre to his voice. However, as he speaks, Castiel's eyes are rooted on the floor past Dean. The deep crease between his eyebrows, cast in further shadow by the dim desk-lamp, is the only hint towards his emotions. "You'd think that after so long existing for no purpose other than to be a foil for Dean... you'd have learnt when to  _hold your tongue_."

Dean's mouth falls open, shocked; Sam is silent for a pause behind him before saying, "What?"

Things happen fast then.

Castiel's eyes flash up cold, hollow – and black. A smirk twists his lips. Caught in a stupor, Dean thinks that maybe the only thing weirder than having an angel in love with him is having a demon in love with him. Then, with one sharp, deft movement of Castiel's hand, Sam is lifted like a rag-doll and hurled against the far wall.

A strangled, wordless yell bursts from Dean's throat, eyes flying wide with horror as he watches Sam impact, slide and crumple. Dean sits up, ignoring the way Castiel shifts over him, and shoves him back as hard as he can. However, Castiel is suddenly stone and steel; Dean cracks two knuckles back trying to push him, without making Castiel so much as flinch. It does serve to get his attention though, and when he slowly twists his head like a half-commandeered puppet to stare down at Dean, his eyes are dark and infinite.

The chill that melts down Dean's spine and limbs temporarily paralyses him, and he can only watch in mingled horror and awe as Castiel stands and walks away from the couch with the careful, unsteady steps of something that is fundamentally and bone-deep alien.

Castiel stalks across the room, moving around the coffee table and the ungainly heaps of books scattered by Sam's flight. He lifts one hand in front of his face, stares at it like it doesn't belong to him as he admiringly flexes those long, narrow fingers that had just five minutes ago been pressed adoringly against Dean's skin; he then thrusts that hand, palm-outwards, towards Sam. The air in the room is audibly crackling with electricity and chaos and Dean can only watch as malevolence faintly twists Castiel's lips into a grin – and then Sam is hauled upwards by the throat, yelping and spluttering, and pinned against the wallpaper.

As ever, it is Sam who brings Dean back.

" _Dean_ ," he chokes out, clawing frantically at his own throat in vain pursuit of purchase.

"Sammy!" Dean scrambles to his feet, weaving through the mess to get to his brother – his  _brother_ , because after all, no matter what happens, Sam is Sam, and that's all that matters. What they are, what they will always have, is more important than the Apocalypse, more important than the corrosive powers of Becky Rosen's glitter-pencils, and, yeah, more important than Castiel's little tantrums. Dean marches straight over to Castiel, fists a hand into the fabric of his T-shirt and yanks him around so they're face-to-face.

"Dean," Castiel says coolly. There is a distortion to his voice, something dark and creepy-crawly lurking in the depths of the dorky bastard Dean knows so well.

"You let him go, you son of a bitch," Dean snarls, hoisting him up by the collar. Alright, so the angel-demon hybrid may have the physical power advantage, but earth-destroying mojo or not, it's still trapped in a skinny five-eleven body.

"Well, it's nice to see you looking me in the eye, at least." Castiel's voice is slightly strained but otherwise he appears to be completely unaffected by Dean's advantage over him. "Recently it's come to light that avoidance and flat-out rudeness is more your avenue of affection."

"You let him go," Dean growls through gritted teeth, "or so help me God I will... I'll—"

"You'll what?" Castiel's head tips, only slightly – an unsettling perversion of the bird-like habit that Dean finds so endearing, and it twists in his stomach like a knife.

Swallowing hard around a lump in his throat, Dean tilts his chin up, glaring down his nose and challenges, "I'll exorcise you."

"Dean – no!" Sam splutters, straining until he's purple. "Can't – he might-"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean snaps, never taking his eyes from Castiel's.

He remembers all too well the concerns that they picked to bits when they felt they had no other choices – whether an exorcism would expel the evil – whether it would just take his soul, or whatever it is that angels have inside them, to Hell with it – whether it would just straight out kill him.

Dean presses his lips tight together, anger lighting up his eyes from the inside. He's bluffing, of course, but if it comes to it... well, he doesn't know what he'll do, but he knows one thing absolutely stone-cold sure: no-one,  _no-one_  fucks with Dean Winchester's baby brother.

He draws a deep breath. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundis spiritus—"

Castiel laughs. That in itself raises the hair on the back of Dean's neck. Aside from a few short, awkward huffs of air when Dean is being particularly stupid, Dean has never actually heard him laugh.

The sound stops Dean in his tracks for a split-second before he blunders on. "Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii-"

The surreal, vacant grin is slipping slowly from Castiel's face. His bravado is dissolving, but it's more than that. His eyes slide slowly out of focus, stare straight through Dean; the darkness is gradually fading like the retreat of shadows at dawn. He coughs and splutters weakly, scrabbling at Dean's hands to get free.

Dean steels his resolve, eyes flicking quickly to the far wall where Sam is going purple. He hauls Castiel a little higher. "Omnis legio," he snarls. "Omnis congregatio et secta-"

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Castiel slumps. All his bones seem to liquefy and his knees buckle until Dean's grip on his shirt is the only thing keeping him upright. Relief surges through Dean's every bone at the sight of what usually signifies Castiel returning to normal, because Dean had been dangerously close to the end of the exorcism, and as the words were tripping out of his mouth, he'd been wondering where he was going to have to stop, and what would happen when he did. Because he would have had to stop. Castiel isn't going anywhere, and Dean sure as hell isn't going to be the one who banishes him.

Black eyes flutter closed and then re-open blue, dim and exhausted. "What – Dean—" Castiel searches blankly for him, hands clinging blindly - and with a great crash, Sam falls to the floor.

The spell is broken.

Torn between carrying Castiel's dead-weight and ditching him to check on Sam, Dean grips Castiel, one hand clutching his forearm and the other wedged into his armpit, and twists to call over his shoulder, "Sam? Sammy, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

The only response is a loud, pained groan.

Dean drags Castiel up to his feet so that he can support himself and then pulls away from the half-conscious grabby hands. He backs away slowly, hands outstretched in case Castiel falls, and then turns to rush Sam's side. He grabs Sam's shoulders, shakes him once, takes his face in his hands like he used to when Sammy was just a kid who fell down, bumped his knee, hurt his toe. "Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam replies hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again. He feebly tries to swat Dean away. "I'm fine, man – check on Cas. I'm alright."

"He's okay, aren'tcha, Cas?" Dean glances backwards – and Castiel is not okay. He's gazing blind, swaying, and as Dean watches, his knees buckle again. He grabs the side of Bobby's desk to hold himself up but falls heavily to his hands and knees, knocking over a stack of books with his elbow as he collapses, and then vomits onto the floorboards. Dean's throat pulls in tight so he can barely breathe. " _Shit,"_ he swears. "He – yeah, fuck, he needs help."

"Go," Sam insists, still struggling for breath. He rubs his swollen windpipe with one hand, pushing Dean's shoulder with the other. "Get off me and go. I don't need you; Cas does. And sort your goddamn clothes out."

Dean flushes red at all the implications laid on in Sam's voice, but he pretends not to care as he rearranges his clothes – the shirt still rucked up around his ribs, the boxers riding low on his hips, all lingering remainders of Castiel's weight pressed hot against his body. He kneels beside Castiel and loops an arm carefully around his waist. "Come on, man, get up," he says, his voice gruff to hide the natural worry and warmth seeping in dangerously.

Clearly, however, there is a higher power and he hates Dean because Castiel looks up at him with blurred, confused eyes, says "Dean – what – how did I get down here?" with more than a trace of panic, and promptly throws up again, vomit splattering a pile of Bobby's old beloved books. Castiel gropes at Dean's arm for support as Dean pulls him to his feet; he stumbles, pushing his stinky head into the dip between shoulder and neck. Just the rush of his breath rippling the collar of Dean's shirt as he mutters, "My apologies – I can't – I'm sorry, Dean—" is enough to make Dean want to pick him up and take him somewhere safe, except that the dude's heavy and he stinks of puke.

"It's okay," Dean reassures him. He tries to not to let his nose crinkle at the smell, concentrating instead of getting Castiel to a point where he can start climbing back uphill to who he used to be. "Don't worry, alright? You're gonna be okay."

They walk together to Sam's camp-bed, where Dean cautiously sits him down on the edge. Castiel's spine is suddenly jelly though; he wobbles and falls against Dean's shoulder. "I – Dean," he says, struggling to sit up. "I don't – what happened?"

"Hey, hey, don't hurt yourself." Dean slips one hand to rub between his shoulder-blades, seeking to comfort and physically support him at the same time. "You just blacked out again. What's the last thing you remember?"

Castiel melts under his fingers, warm and boneless, exhausted. "I... I came downstairs for a glass of water."

Dean doesn't know what he was expecting to hear.  _I was with you. Sam had just interrupted us. I was trying to jerk you off through your clothes._ Any of those would have been fine, really – and even though it was unlikely, even though Castiel's answer is the one that makes the most sense, it doesn't stop the feeling of being thrown into icy water. He's slammed hard with disappointment and regret, and for a second his throat chokes up. He can feel Sam's eyes on him though, wide and concerned, so instead he forces himself to ask calmly, "That's it? Last thing? Nothing after?"

Swinging his head so wildly that he bashes his temple into Dean's shoulder, Castiel says, "No – I don't remember... I mean. Maybe – perhaps there might have been... but no." He seems to cave in on himself, but exerts the effort to tilt his head up and stare into Dean's face, his eyes all crinkled with fatigue and confusion. "What – did something... happen?"

"No." Dean swallows. "Nothing."

Sam's long, girly sigh is audible even from the other side of the room. Dean doesn't bother sparing the time to glare at him. He doesn't need Sam's bullshit, the same way that Sam doesn't need him, period. Whatever.

Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder. "How about you get some shut-eye, huh? When you come around, we'll get you some of Bobby's medicine, sort you out. How does that sound? Alright?"

Castiel nods like a sleepy child. He curls a little, as though he'd be happy enough just to fall asleep right here on Dean's shoulder, but Dean won't let him. There's an ache in his stomach that isn't just born of a severe case of blue balls, and the thought of Castiel, innocent and oblivious, snuggling unconsciously up to Dean, is too much to bear. He gulps again and tries to man the fuck up. There are bigger problems here. He draws his hand from Castiel's back and carefully lets him collapse, sinking down into the mattress. He's asleep – or at least unconscious – before the springs stop creaking.

Then there is silence.

Heaving a long, heavy sigh, Dean balls a hand into a fist and beats it agitatedly on top of his knee, watching the somewhat unsteady rise and fall of Castiel's breathing. "Christ," he finally mutters, because what else can be said when your dorky best friend starts going demon-schiz? He drags himself to his feet and starts to tidy up – starting with the putrid vomit that Castiel has succeeded in getting  _everywhere._ Books are always scattered in every direction, and some have fallen apart and will need new binding; Bobby is not gonna be impressed. Sam climbs to his feet, wheezing uncomfortably, and joins in. They don't speak.

After a couple of minutes, Sam looks up and goes, "Hm?"

Dean frowns at him. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh."

The hush is all the more awkward for having been broken. Dean determinedly ignores it. There is still a dull ache where Sam's words stabbed through, blunt and ragged; it seems like days have passed since their argument in the kitchen but it hasn't even been twenty-four hours. Dean feels old. He doesn't want to talk about their problems. He doesn't want to talk about Becky.

He doesn't want to talk about the angel who loves him, and he certainly doesn't want to talk about the way his stomach clenches now when he even thinks about it, like maybe he could do something, be something for Castiel. Like maybe he wants to.

Dean doesn't want to talk at all.

He stoops to pick up a fallen bottle of whiskey and shakes it. Empty. He puts it to his lips anyway, just in case. There's a drop but not enough. In the far corner, Sam scoops up the last of the loose papers and bounces them into one neat rectangular wad.

"Well," Sam says with a short laugh. "At least you can never criticise me again for making all the wrong decisions about angry demon sex!"

Eyes narrowing, Dean meets Sam's eyes. "What?"

"You know." Sam flaps his papers down onto Bobby's desktop. "Ruby. And now Cas."

For a moment, Dean doesn't answer; he is intently focused on twisting a bookcase to the right angle. Then he turned and leans casually against it, stares Sam down with a calm that feels dead to him. "Are you really comparing Cas to Ruby?" he asks quietly.

Sam's eyebrows pull together, bewildered. He huffs his breath out, shakes his head. "No," he says, with a tone of  _of-course-not-you-dumbass_ that makes Dean's skin crawl. "I was joking – I mean—"

"Here's where you're wrong," Dean says. He pushes off the bookcase and takes a couple steps towards Sam. Then he stops when they're still separated by about three metres. He doesn't need any more from Sam. Dean levels a hand at Sam to stop him in his tracks. "Cas is not, and never will be,  _anything_ like that demonic psycho-bitch," he says sharply. "And second, though I don't really see why it matters, there was no... no freaking ' _angry demon sex'_. I mean, you were yelling like you wanted to gouge your eyes out. I thought you'd have noticed that we weren't actually even past second-base."

"Oh, sorry," Sam replies solemnly. "It was dark, I guess, and it was pretty hard to see past your sudden, rampant homosexuality."

Dean rolls his eyes. "That's hilarious, Sam," he tells him, tone icy even in the pre-dawn cold of Bobby's library. "Really. You should write that down so you can tell Becky sometime over Sunday dinner."

Taking a step back, Sam looks genuinely stunned. "Is that what this is about?"

Merely by looking at that hurt puppy-dog face, Dean realises that he is too tired for this. He really doesn't care. He sighs. "This isn't about anything," he croaks, rubbing the corners of his eyes with finger and thumb. He swallows hard and looks up at Sam through bleary eyes. "Listen, I just saved your ass from a five-ten dork in his underwear. Suck it up and leave me alone."

Dean promptly turns his back on Sam so that he doesn't have to see that ridiculous upset face anymore. He doesn't care.

He heads into the kitchen and stands there in the dark, staring blankly at a cupboard door, until he hears the rustle of pages and squeak of springs in the couch which Sam is busy. Then and only then does Dean reach under the sink, rummaging right to the back, for where he's hidden the last sure bottle of whiskey. He untwists the top and takes a long swig. Sits down, cross-legged on the floor like a kid – and takes another pull from the bottle, so there's something fucked up with that. A lot fucked up with that. Dean grimaces, but is faintly comforted by the familiar sting of it. He drinks again and closes his eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

Six hours, a half-bottle of whiskey and a cold shower later, Dean is sitting at the kitchen table flipping through flimsy journal pages. After half an hour so of icy silence, Sam went to watch TV very quietly, but Dean has been here all night. Book are piled all around him, small post-its sticking out in weird places where he has found something that might be useful.

There are very few post-it notes.

It's been a quiet morning. Bobby came down about an hour ago, grumbled his way through some morning pleasantries, grabbed a slice of toast and announced that he was off to work on a truck in the garage. There's the hum and whistle of birds outside; snow is melting.

With a low sigh, Dean snaps the journal shut and pushes it away. He's absolutely exhausted and there is a ringing in his head that he can't differentiate as being slight remaining inebriety or the start of a shitty hangover. He kneads at his eyes with the backs of his hands and drags the next book towards him.

That's when Castiel comes in.

"Dean," he says. His voice is a rasp, lower and more raw than usual, and he looks like shit. He is so pale that his skin has taken on a strange, faintly yellow translucence; shadows hang under his dim eyes like half-healed bruises.

Getting quickly to his feet, Dean takes an awkward step forwards. "Morning, sunshine," he says uncertainly. One hand hovers halfway between him and Castiel before falling back to his side. "How you feeling?"

Castiel doesn't answer. He pulls in a long, unsteady breath and shakes his head as though he can't even begin to explain how shit he feels. He shuffles forwards into the kitchen, stumbles a little – Dean throws his hands out in case he needs to catch him, but he's fine. A long shadow lurks just beyond the doorway, unsurprisingly. Whether he and Sam are on good terms or not, of course his dumb brother would never miss an opportunity where feelings might be discussed. Dean ignores him.

When Castiel puts a hand to lean against the counter, he stumbles, and Dean can just  _see_ a scenario in which Castiel crumples and cracks his skull open. Dean darts to him and grips him by one forearm.

"Come on, man, don't collapse on me again," Dean says firmly. "I ain't dealing with that shit again. Sit down – chill out. You want anything?"

Castiel's head jerks in vague negation as he sinks wearily onto the kitchen chair that Dean has just vacated. He clears his throat before muttering, "Where's Bobby? I need – I want my... my-"

"Come again?" Dean ducks down, sitting on the backs of his heels so he's a little closer to Castiel in an attempt to understand his incoherent mumbling. "Do you want your meds? Uh... Bobby's out in the garage fixing something and he'll be back soon..." Dean is about to ask Sam for a second opinion before he remembers that he doesn't want Sam's opinion on anything. He looks down for a second, gnawing the inside of his lower lip. Screw second opinions. He decides to go with his guns instead. He looks up, smiling brightly. "But Bobby won't be back for a while, and it's not exactly hard to dose you up, is it?"

Applying great concentration to the mere act of blinking, Castiel tries to focus on Dean, but his eyes fade and slip to distant things. He exhales slow and rattling, and closes his eyes again. "Yes. I mean... it's fine. Without Bobby. Please."

Dean claps a hand on Castiel's knee, half to reassure him and half to balance himself as he twists on his toes, still crouching. "Hey, Sammy – Sam – you wanna get in here and help, or are you just gonna stand out there looking pretty?" he calls. "Get Cas' medicine from the fridge, will you?"

Sam hurries in from the shadows to help out, blabbing nervous apologies. Sleep-deprived, he's all limbs and lanky as he scrabbles for the fridge.

When Dean hears the sterilised, futuristic-esque rush of air from the fridge's broken seal, he guesses that Sam can do the rest on his own, and turns back around. His hand, he realises, is still on Castiel's knee; Castiel doesn't not seem to have even noticed. Dean's heart deflates a little further remembering that there is nothing between them. He drops his hand to the linoleum, picking idly at a dirt footprint with his fingernail. Whatever.

"Dean, are you sure it's in here?"

Jesus Christ. Dean's shoulders slump, disbelieving. "Yes, Sam," he says witheringly. "Pretty damn sure. I saw it in there like an hour ago... Big grey bottle."

"Huh. Okay. Yeah, I fou- no, wait. No, this is bolognaise sauce, I think..."

"Sam, it's a goddamn tiny fridge. It's not that hard."

"Well, I can't – oh hang on, maybe-"

Dean grabs hold of the kitchen table and uses it to haul himself to his feet. "Holy crap, never mind. If you're gonna be so damn incompetent I might as well just do it myself," he says irritably. He yanks the fridge door further back so that he can lean over it to look in, since Sam is filling the whole space on the other side. "Look,  _there_!"

"Yeah, that's what I said-"

"Well, too late – just forget it, Sam." Dean reaches over, bending his arm awkwardly to get at it – at the same time that Sam grabs it. "Hey, get off-"

"I said I've got it, Dean-"

"For Christ's sake, just  _leave it-_ "

" _Dean_!"

Their hands swat and scrabble and claw, and somehow the end result is that neither of them are holding the bottle securely, and it slips and falls and smashes open on the floor.

Dark, viscous liquid spills out across the floor.

Dean exclaims, " _Shit_. Now look what you've done!"

Sam reels instantly backwards, mouth falling slightly open.

Castiel grows rigid like he's been electrocuted. He stares blankly at the liquid seeping into the cracks of the floor tiles, entranced.

The kitchen is silent.

Then: "Dean, that's—" Sam stutters. "That's—"

"Is that blood?" Dean asks. For some reason his voice comes out small, breathy.

"Demon blood," Sam finishes. He is breathing hard like a marathon runner. "That's demon blood, Dean."

"No, it can't be. It isn't – I mean, Bobby's made some fancy-ass medicine, right? So maybe it's got some dark stuff in it, like—"

"Dean, just shut up!" Sam tells him, eyes hard. "I can  _smell_ it. Trust me." He takes a deep breath, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. "As the resident ex-blood-junkie, I think that I'm the most reliable to recognise that...  _that_... is one-hundred-percent, bona fide... concentrated demon blood."

Very slowly, cold awareness sinks through to Dean's bones. Something has been corrupting Castiel for weeks, so why the hell haven't they paid any attention to the fact that Castiel is being fed increasing quantities of the Mystery Drink of the Day? Dean's seen all the symptoms before with Sam – how can he have ignored them the second time around?

Dean turns back to Sam. "Well, this raises a hell of a lot of new questions," he says.

Sam gives a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah."

Shaken, Dean glances over at Castiel, who is standing, every muscle tensed for action. He takes sluggish, heavy steps forwards, zombie-like; he even stretches one arm out to grab.

Sam intervenes, bracing one broad shoulder in his warpath, and Castiel crashes blindly into him. "Okay, I'm getting Cas out of here," Sam says.

"Yeah, good idea. Put him back in the library, see if you can find a musical on TV or something. I need to clean this stuff up."

Sam wraps an arm tight around his shoulders and tries to shepherd him out of the room. "Come on, Cas, let's go—"

"No," Castiel suddenly says, jerking away from Sam's outstretched hands. "No – Sam – I need—"

"Cas, seriously, come on." Sam holds on tighter and tries to drag him forcibly out of the room, past the growing puddle. "You can't have any of your medicine anymore. You realise that's what making you sick, right?"

"I'm not sick." Castiel strains forwards obstinately. "Sam, be reasonable – I need it –  _Sam!"_

Dean pretends he can't hear Castiel's pleading and the sound of his feet scraping and squeaking on the tiles as he fights to get towards the spilt medicine. He pretends not to feel the nausea that wells up inside him at the thought of Castiel so desperate to get even a drop of what's been poisoning him for so long. He pretends he can't feel anything.

Castiel flails, and one arm catches Sam in the head. Sam reacts quick, grabbing that hand, but then Castiel pitches forwards, pulling away from the closing, captive fingers. He snarls, animalistic – "Sam,  _get off_ "- until finally, Sam bends backwards and lifts Castiel bodily so that his toes only brush the floor, and as much as he struggles he can't get back. His begging becomes quieter and then stops altogether; ABBA songs filter through from the library instead.

Dean focuses on wiping up the blood and throwing away any evidence that the bottle of medicine ever existed. He wraps up the broken bottle in newspaper; throws the bundle in the trash; takes out the trash, walking the long way around Bobby's house so that he doesn't have to walk past Castiel with it. Metallic clangs ring out from the garage. Bobby is still busy.

Bobby.

Bobby Singer,  _'Uncle Bobby'_  from his childhood, almost-father Bobby from his lost years, has been corrupting Castiel.

No. It's not time to get sentimental; it's time to get hunter. Dean stands by the back bins for a second, his fingers drumming repetitively over the plastic. He presses his lips tight together.

Something _inside_  Bobby has been corrupting Castiel.

Dean storms back into the house, ready for war. Castiel is sitting limply on the couch, watching  _Mamma Mia_ through half-lidded, vacant eyes. Sam is sitting beside him like a therapist, occasionally stealing nervous glances at him, and looking edgy in general – although that could be because he's being made to sit through men wearing latex and singing Dancing Queen. Even Dean, who has recently taken to making out with holy tax accountants on couches, isn't  _that_ gay. Dean nods at Sam as he passes through, and he instantly gets up and follows him into the kitchen.

"So what do you think?" Sam asks as soon as they're out of earshot.

"I don't know, man," Dean admits. "Possession? That would explain where he's getting all the blood from."

"Yeah, but that much blood, no. Cas has been drinking about two litres a day and if that latest bottle was anything to go by, it's all been fresh," Sam points out, grimacing.

"That's true." Dean wipes his mouth with one hand and then balls it up into a fist, thinking carefully. "But then... where the hell else? No demons can get out of here, so they aren't gonna just wander in – and if it's fresh, that means that even when Bobby goes out to the grocery store or whatever, it isn't like he can just stock it up. Pfft..." He shakes his head. "I have no idea. I mean, who even knows if Bobby-"

"If Bobby what?"

They turn as one, surprised and guilty. No other than Bobby is planted in the kitchen doorway, arms folded and glowering. There are rust smears finger-streaked on his jeans; neat, perfectly circular spatters of dark oil over his jacket.

"Hi Bobby," Sam says, his tone overly bright. "We were just saying-"

"If Bobby needs it!" Dean says loudly. Sam and Bobby swivel to stare incredulously at him. Dean grins at Sam, eyes imploring him to wise up and play along. "Who even knows if Bobby needs it? See, Sam here is running off with his little girlfriend soon and we were just running through whether they were gonna be able to afford the whole domestic lifestyle."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, nodding eagerly as though he has the slightest clue what is going on. "I mean, I'd get a job but it's still pretty exp-"

"And Sammy, inconsiderate dick that he is, was thinking of pilfering your TV so that it's one less thing he has to buy," Dean continues, ignoring the startled look that Sam throws him, "but I was just telling him that you might still need it." Dean sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and glances between the two of them – Bobby, scowling and sceptical as ever; Sam, trying to hide his displeasure at having been the butt of Dean's cover-up. "Long story short," Dean says cheerfully, "do you still need your TV?"

"Yes," Bobby snaps. "I don't spend my whole life researching your problems and cleaning up your messes, you know. You can keep your grubby paws off my stuff."

"Of course," Dean exclaims. "That's what I was telling him. Sorry, Sam. You'll have to get your own stuff. How goes the totalled truck, Bobby?"

Bobby grunts. "Scrap metal. It's a pile of crap – the frame's bust." He dusts his hands off and crosses the kitchen to the coffee machine. As he replaces the filter and switches it on, he asks, "What the hell's up with Castiel?"

"He has a head-ache," Sam says, at the exactly the same time as Dean says, "Food poisoning."

They exchange consulting glances, before correcting themselves simultaneously: "The food poisoning gave him a headache."

The coffee machine whirs noisily behind Bobby as he turns to stare at them in bewilderment. "What the hell're you two on?" he asks suspiciously.

Dean shrugs. "The milk was a little off too, I think," he lies feebly. He draws in a long breath and lifts a hand to clap Sam on the shoulder – remembers that they're not talking anymore – his hand hovers awkwardly for a second – and then scratches his ear like that was the plan all along. "So uh, someone get Cas in here!" he says, turning the toaster on with a decisive smack of metal. He grins at the others. If there's nothing he or Sam can do about Bobby for now, then they're just gonna have to suck it up and play along for a while. "Who wants lunch?"

* * *

Four PM, December twenty-sixth. Dean storms into the library, blazing.

"Where's Bobby?" he demands, glancing hurriedly about like he hasn't even got time for his gaze to settle.

"Uh, in the panic room," Sam says, confused. "Dean, what-"

"Good. Keep it that way." Dean rushes over to the landline phones on the way, deliberating for a second over which one to use before realising that they're all the same.

"You want me to lock him in there?" Sam asks incredulously.

"No, Jesus. Just... stand out in the hall, will you, make sure he doesn't come up," Dean tells him. He picks up a phone but hears no movement behind him, so he goes no further. Instead he looks back over his shoulder. "Today! Please!"

"I'll go," Castiel offers, glancing between them. He hauls himself out of the armchair and pauses briefly to give Dean a short nod of something between acquiescence and affection, and then walks.

"What's going on?" Sam asks.

"I'm calling Jody, that's what," Dean says, watching Castiel cross the library to guard the hallway before dialling.

"She isn't at home-"

Dean brandishes a slip of paper, raising his eyebrows. "Mobile. Bobby's number. Only guess where he put it for, uh,  _safekeeping_." He squints at the numbers for a second before jabbing them in. "I'll give you a hint – the correct answer is ' _in a locked bedside drawer, in an envelope marked KEEP OUT, along with a million useless receipts and all the other numbers we might have needed'._  Ding ding ding! Sound a little fishy to you?"

Sam exhales in a low whistle. "Jesus."

"Yeah – wait, hang on, it's connecting." Dean turns away from Sam slightly so that he can concentrate. "Hello? It's Dean."

"Dean!" Jody exclaims, surprised. "God, it's good to hear from you! How are you boys? Merry Christmas, by the way – I take you couldn't come over to help out, but it's okay. Turns out it's a ghoul, so we're going after it tomorrow evening. All under control."

"Sorry, what? I don't think I got the newsletter," Dean says. "What's all under control?"

"You know. Middlegate? With my sister, Anne?"

There is silence on the line.

"Kids been going missing for a few months?" Jody prompts hesitantly.

"Uh." Dean looks over at Sam, as though somehow his brother will become a glowing beacon of wisdom and understanding. No such luck. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Jody huffs down the line. "I swear to God..." she mutters. "Did Bobby not even tell you?"

"I guess it must have slipped his mind," Dean laughs falsely, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. "Why – what's going on?"

"We're in Middlegate – in Nevada. Kids under the age of ten have been disappearing for weeks now; my sister lives here and she was getting worried about her kids being next, so she called me, and I called Bobby, asking if he and any of his guys could help out. I assumed he'd ask you, Sam and Cas, but I guess you didn't get the memo." Jody sighs. "Well, I feel bad for you – we had a hell of a Christmas over here and I'll bet you boys didn't even think to put up a goddamn tree. Damnit, well, that's Bobby's fault. I swear to God, sometimes, that man..."

"Actually, that's what I was calling to talk to you about," Dean interrupts. He glances quickly over his shoulder to check the doorway. Castiel is leaning tiredly against the wall on the far side of the hall; he looks up to meet Dean's eyes and gives a short nod to say that the coast is clear. "It's Bobby," Dean continues. "Have you noticed anything kinda... weird about him recently?"

She laughs. "What, you mean aside from his astounding capacity to run a girl out of house and home for liquor?"

Dean frowns, bewildered. "Wait. What? When?"

"Right now, probably!" Jody says, her voice heavy with bemused affection. "He and his buddies have practically drunk Anne's cabinets dry – and I hate to think of the chargers he builds up on those dinky motel fridge beverages... I probably shouldn't have left them alone - my sister can't control them."

Every inch of Dean's body runs simultaneously hot and cold. He clears his throat awkwardly and catches Sam's eye with a hard expression before saying, "Who else is there with Bobby?"

Sam jerks visibly, eyes flying wide. His mouth falls slightly open and then half-closes several times as though struggling to form words, before pressing his lips tight together as Dean holds a hand up to shush him.

"Erm..." Jody hesitates. "Well, there's Bobby, some guy called Dylan. He's pretty cool. A Peter, too – and some guy I only met twice briefly... Reuben, I think? Rupert?"

"Rufus?" Dean offers, voice tight.

"That's the one! I tell you, they've been useful as hell and we've nearly got this ghoul situation all sorted out, but those boys know how to drink," Jody chuckles.

Dean swallows hard, unsure whether to be delighted that Rufus is okay, or furious that whatever is pretending to be Bobby lied to them so outright. He hears Sam's outraged splutter but can no longer stand to look him in the eye. Instead, he stares down at the floorboards and demands, "Jody, how long have you been on this case?"

"A month, maybe?" Worry is beginning to creep into her voice. "Why? Dean, what's wrong?"

A month. A month that this imposter-Bobby has been hiding out here, destroying Castiel from the inside.

A lot can happen in a month.

That's all the time they have though, because there are footsteps in the hallway and the rasp of Castiel's voice awkwardly saying, "Bobby – is that a new shirt?" – more footsteps – Sam is frozen, rigid, his eyes darting frantically from Dean to an unseen danger behind him.

"Put the phone down."


	17. Chapter 17

The game is up.

The presence of the man who is not Bobby is a dark weight in the room, like the house is pulling in close around him to be shattered and swallowed whole. Dean takes his time; breathes slow and even. He can still hear Jody's voice crackling down the phone.

After a long pause, Dean pulls the phone away from his ear, but instead of hanging up, his thumb flickers over to press a different button altogether; Jody fizzes through on loudspeaker, her tone concerned.

"Dean, what's-"

"So Jody," Dean cuts in casually. "Bobby's definitely, with you, is he?"

"Uh, yeah. Why? Dean-"

"No reason. Don't worry about it, Jody," Dean lies. "I'll have to call you back later though. I gotta go. Alright. Yes, you too. Merry Christmas. Bye."

Dean reaches back over the library desk and this time he does hang up. Then he turns, smiling hollowly. "Oh, hey Bobby!"

Bobby stands on the other side of the desk as though waiting for something. His expression is completely blank, eyes cold. Castiel stands just behind him, chewing helplessly at his lower lip as if to apologise that Bobby could not be stopped.

Still grinning, Dean jerks his head in the direction of the phone. "I don't know if you caught any of that but I was just talking to Jody – see, there's the weirdest thing going on. Let me put it this way." The smile now slides from his face; his eyes narrow. "Either you're getting ganked or I'm gonna have to explain to Jody that the Bobby she's been hanging out with for the past month isn't really Bobby, but whichever way,  _someone_ is getting a silver blade to the eye socket. Oh – and by the way," Dean adds as a venomous afterthought, lifting a hand sharply to wave, cocky. "Rufus says hi."

Bobby – or whoever it is – raises his hands in unimpressed surrender. "Alright, you win," he drawls. "You got me."

"I thought so. Now what the hell are you?" Dean demands, snatching the pistol from the belt of his pants and levelling it at the Bobby imposter.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Princess. What do you want me to explain first?" Bobby sneers, folding his arms and looking worryingly unfazed by the aim of Dean's weapon. "How I've been slowly destroying your little angel from the inside? Or I could take the traditional villainous route and boast about how sickeningly easy you made this." He barks a short laugh. "But first things first..." He rips the baseball cap off his head, balls it up and rolls it between his hands thoughtfully. "Goddamn. That hat chafes like a  _bitch_  – and I should know, right? I've worn one of  _those_ before. In fact, you might be more familiar with her."

Before their very eyes, Bobby's skin ripples and melts – he shrinks and grows all at once – and then suddenly he's a she, dragging a hand carelessly back through long shiny dark curls. And Jesus Christ, yeah, Dean recognises those tits.

A smirk twists plump lips, and she pops a button of Bobby's old flannel shirt where it strains over her mind-blowingly incredible boobs. "Can I get you boys anything?" she asks coyly, playing with the curling shirt collar.

"You're – you're that waitress!" Sam splutters. "From that diner, when Cas couldn't-"

"Yeah, when Cas couldn't," she interrupts, mimicking Sam and mocking his voice into a whiney little bitch. "You know, for all I'd heard about you two in whispers while I was sleeping – the boys who killed the Devil, who altered destiny, Team Freaking Free Will – well, I never expected you to be so goddamn stupid." She rolls her eyes, leans on one leg so her hip juts out like a warning. "So I'm serving coffee after coffee, waiting for my time to come... when in walk you two yahoos with Feathers here in tow, complaining at the top of your lungs how his juice is all gone! Great move. Really."

Sam cuts in. "Wait – you were waiting for your time to come? For what?"

"For orders. See, I don't know you mophead hillbillies get this, but when you pulled the plug on the End of Days, that wasn't just your world you royally fucked up, or your destiny, or your religion. You screwed the universe for us all."

The thing still wearing Bobby's clothes takes three slow, menacing steps forwards, measuring Sam up with her eyes. Dean unconsciously shifts to put a shoulder between them.

"So me and the other Old Ones, we were happy lying dormant and waiting for the end to come, but no," she snaps. "Suddenly we're being roused for battle because  _apparently_  we need a new leader and a new End and whatever, yadda  _freaking_  yadda."

"You're one of the Old Ones?" Sam asks, lightly brushing Dean's elbows with his. A signal – we know how to kill those. "The first witches."

"Yeah, Sammy, old. Older than most of your continental plates, so fuck you very much if you think I'm working for demons and doing their dirty work. I'm getting me a Satanic leader to throw their way and then I'm out," she tells him sourly. Her eyes greedily flick the length of Sam's body and she smirks. "I hear the demons had a thing for you, Bigfoot, but sorry. I found someone better." She twists on one heel to look over at where Castiel is still standing, frozen and uncertain. "Your rebellious, naive little canary just happened to fit all the criteria!" She pouts mockingly, tipping her head. "Oh, sweetie. You're just not cut out for all those  _feelings,_ are you?"

At this, Castiel's eyes flash impulsively sideways to catch Dean's, and something tightens painfully inside Dean. Castiel's throat bobs as he swallows hard and then he rolls his head sideways to stare challengingly at the witch, eyes narrowed.

The witch isn't fazed at all by Castiel's attempt at menacing – it could be the pale sheen to his skin, the bruise-like shadows under his eyes, or the way that for all his bravado, he's shaking like a leaf. Instead, she laughs. "Don't get mad, Feathers, it's so unbecoming on you," she says appraisingly. "Although it has been helpful. That, plus the little turning-mortal stunt you pulled... see, it's a lot easier to corrupt an angel when he isn't feeling quite so... angelic." Smiling triumphantly, she takes another few steps forward until she is standing less than a foot from Dean. She cocks an eyebrow, lifts a hand, and lets it hover by her side for a second. "And if you two get killed in the process – well. All the more brownie points for me."

She snaps her fingers.

With a great, creaking rumble like a ship setting sail, Bobby's house seems to begin swaying and stretching. Floorboards crack and groan, and sawdust rains down from the ceiling. Books fall from their shelves, the pages scattering as the spines break. For a minute or so it seems that the whole building is going to come down on them. Windows rattle and smash in their panes. Ornaments crash like broken bodies onto the floors, disappearing with screeching scratches into the gaps that appear between floorboards as the very structure of the house is seemingly pulled apart and distorted. One hand flying out away from his gun ready to grab and hold, Dean glances wildly back for Sam - panicked, confused, but intact – and then twists back to yell for Castiel.

" _Cas_!"

"She's breaking the Devil's Traps!" he shouts back over the noise, staring at where the witch is still standing perfectly still.

Her eyes are closed, a beatific smile stretching lazily over her face, oblivious to the surrounding chaos. At the sound of Castiel's voice, she opens her eyes and turns to fix a calm, amused gaze on him. She quirks an eyebrow in a seductive gesture born and bred to make men go weak at the knees. "Oh, relax – a couple of demons never hurt anyone... right, Cas?"

In spite of the way that Castiel sways dangerously, unsettled by the mere act of standing up, let alone doing so with the house seeming to threaten collapse around him, Castiel grits his teeth together, draws himself upright, joints juddering weakly with strain, and manages to snarl with cold defiance, "You don't get to call me that."

However, at that moment, everything becomes calm. The shaking stops and the furniture settles – everything seems to be under control. Unsettled by the change, Sam and Dean exchange worried glances: now what?

Sam realises what's going to happen next before Dean does.

"Cas," he calls urgently, lowering his gun and pushing past Dean. "You've got to get out of here now – lock yourself in the bathroom or just get outside, it doesn't matter - just get as far away as you can-"

Dean makes a noise of confused protest, but Castiel seems to get it. He's already heading for the hallway... although as fast as he moves, he isn't faster than the demons that are suddenly standing in his way.

Castiel stiffens, every muscle in his body pulling tight; his eyes flicker from vessel to demonic vessel, weighing his options. Three demons... one male, two female. They're outnumbered – and Castiel will be near enough useless the instant any one of those demons so much as gets a paper-cut. Plus, unlike their opponents, neither Sam nor Dean have the power to throw someone clean through a brick wall.

"Seriously though, you should be grateful," the witch comments as the demons move closer; one pint-sized blonde cracks her fingers like she's used to being in the body of a lumberjack; the other, in a willowy black vessel, narrows her eyes curiously like she's never seen an angel before. The witch steps back to let them pass. "There used to be a whole brothel of demons down in Singer's basement... but luckily enough for you, Feathers here already drained most of them." She levels a cold smile at Castiel, baring teeth. "Don't worry. We all get thirsty, right?"

Castiel takes a few unsteady steps backwards Sam and Dean, where if he can't escape, he's at least safe.

"Oh, don't be such a prude," the female sneers. "You're practically one of us now anyway."

"You're an abomination," Castiel spits, but his eyes are wide and glassy, like maybe he can already smell the throb of blood beneath their skin, dark and salty and salacious, and he wants it.

"Cas!" Dean says warningly, and he lurches forwards to curl a fist in Castiel's shirt and drag him backwards – a little too roughly, because Castiel nearly falls over, and that's how they end up closer than expected, almost nose to nose, and that's how Dean can see the reaction in Castiel's eyes when one of the demons carefully slits his own wrist.

"We'll see who's in denial now," the male demon chuckles, lifting his hand and clenching his fingers tight so that the blood pulses out hot and fast.

Gradually, Castiel's eyes lose focus. He sways suddenly, fast, like one of his legs have been cut out from underneath him, but regains his balance. Gaze drifting blankly, Castiel swings slowly from staring at Dean to the ceiling and around and back again, and when their eyes meet again, there is something wrong. The blue of Castiel's irises have been almost completely replaced by black – not by demonic transformation, but by pure desire, and Dean knows instantly that Castiel's almost gone.

"Cas, we gotta get you out of here now," Dean urges, clinging tighter to the front of Castiel's clothes, trying to anchor him. "Come on –  _Cas –_ can you hear me?"

"Enough, Dean," Castiel says softly, staring blindly past him. He turns to look at the demons on the other side of the room. Tips his head a little, and not enough – it's a shallow perversion of the endearing habit, subtly wrong. He pulls away from Dean like he isn't there at all, and walks.

For a second, Dean can only stare after him, mouth open in frustrated disbelief, and in that second, Sam darts forwards – "Cas, no!" – grabs his elbow – and before anyone has even entirely grasped what's happening, Sam is being flung the length of the room, crashing shoulder-first into one of Bobby's cabinets, and as the books and glass come raining down, towing Sam's limp body with it. Sam hasn't even hit the floor before his name is already somehow echoing raw on Dean's throat.

Dean isn't sure of the words that are coming out of his mouth but they're pissed and he can't hold them back and everything is smothered by the high-pitched whine of fury in his ears. "- _and get the fuck back here Cas you son of a bitch before I—"_

"I said,  _enough, Dean,"_ Castiel snarls.

Dean is frozen. And not metaphorically, either. He's abruptly rooted on the spot, no muscle in his body under his own control. He can't even open his mouth. He wants to swear, to scream, to threaten blue bloody fucking murder if anything's happened to Sammy – but Dean can hear Sam groaning in the far corner – and it's too late anyway.

Castiel takes the last few steps shaking, exhausted, and then his knees buckle.

He falls to floor in front of the male demon, hands reaching desperately, and as the demons laugh and Dean watches and nothing can be done, Castiel drinks.

"And it's all over!"The witch laughs then, a high, pretty giggle. She fixes Dean with a triumphant smile, shaking her head as she saunters towards him. "Sorry, boys – the angel's ours... we win." She plants her feet steadily apart right in front of Dean and pouts at him exaggeratedly. "Aw, what's wrong, sweetie? Cat got your tongue?" The witch lifts a finger to brush the line of Dean's jaw. He tenses, unable to react in any way but staring her down, wishing fiercely that he could set her on fire just by glaring. She grins again. "You know, I think I like you better when you bite."

Just like that, he's free, and instantly he swings forwards, fist-first. The witch ducks neatly out of the way and bobs back up, laughing still – and then Dean's elbow catches her on the side of the head. She reels back a step, and Dean uses the pause to twist backwards and yell, " _Sammy?_ "

Sam's still crumpled against the wall, but in no way out of action. Dean watches as his little brother sweeps the feet out from under the male demon and knocks him over onto the coffee table. Then that's all the time that Dean can afford to spare in making sure that Sam is okay, because the witch spins back and slams her elbow deep into Dean's ribcage.

All the air rushes out of him in one painful burst and Dean can't help but curl defensively in half, feeling bile and acid roll inside his stomach. He gasps aloud, fighting down the urge to throw up, and then hands grip his head, nails digging in like knives, and shove him. His head is flying towards the corner of one of Bobby's bookcases on a one-way trip to a cracked skull - he throws his arm up protectively, one hand cradling his head – and when he bounces off the wood, there's still the same sharp stab of pain, but he's okay. He kicks out with his free foot, catches her one the hip and she spins out, caught off-balance.

Dean takes the chance to whirl around, take stock of what's going on. The demon and Castiel are kneeling together now, pressed close like dying lovers; Dean can see the greedy trickle of blood down Castiel's chin. If it's even Castiel anymore.

"Sammy?" Dean calls, glancing wildly back the other way.

Sam is pinned with two demons. He throws one sideways, lands an uppercut to the blonde one's jaw that lifts her off her feet. "Dean," he shouts back, barely having the time to breathe before the black one's back up and launching herself at him, clawing.

The witch is back, it becomes apparent, as she swings both hands, clenched tight in one dense ball, at the back of his head with a loud  _crack._  Dean stumbles forwards, swings back. Punches once, twice, but she's smaller and fast and she ducks, laughing as she does.

"How do we kill her, Sam?" Dean yells, his throat raw. One hand scrabbles blindly on the shelves for something – anything – grabs what feels like a jar and hurls it at the witch with all the force he can muster. Glass shatters, slicing a thin line through the middle of her lip; surprise knocks her back a step. " _Sam?"_

"Copper blade—" Sam lashes out with the demon knife, slicing in a wide arc, but one of the demons catches his hand and ducks neatly under it, twisting him over backwards. Kick to the back of his kneecap and he crumples to the ground. The demon climbs over the coffee table, twirling the knife in hand so that it points down, ready to slash his throat. He flips over quickly – the blonde demon suddenly finds herself straddling him – and then he plants a foot in the middle of her chest and heaves her back across the room. "—imbued with lamb's blood—"

"Awesome," Dean mutters, eyeing the witch as she spits out a glob of blood and cracks her neck to one side, glaring.

"—through the heart!" Sam finishes, landing two solid punches to the second demon before snatching the knife up again—

-and then Dean's favourite little waitress is back, kicks him solid in the solar plexus so he's crashing back again, and this time when he grabs for purchase on the shelves, his fingers scratch metal. He grabs it, drags it out from being tucked neatly between two books, and slashes out at the witch. She jumps back a step, almost out of the way but not quite. A thin line is sliced through the fabric of Bobby's shirt, and blood wells up underneath it.

"Damnit," she mutters, and Dean can't help but echo the sentiment, now looking at what he's grabbed – a shitty, half-broken, rust-coated machete that Bobby was pestering him to fix more than a year ago. Of course Dean just hid it, left it to fester, and isn't that just perfect. Better than nothing, though.

Dean advances, hacking. She ducks out of the way, kicks a leg so hard that Dean almost buckles, but he counters by swinging the machete around – misses again. They circle each other, Dean cutting at the air in front of her as she dodges and slips around him – a slice to thin air, chopping down at nothing as she twists - slashes for the face – and then she grabs his hand, pinning both his arm and the machete still. And squeezes.

He's unable to help the choked cry that bursts out of him as he hears something pop – crack – and then she twists sharply.

The pain drags a scratched half-scream from his throat unbidden and he's temporarily incapacitated. He almost drops to his knees, unable to see past the pulsating darkness edging at his vision with every beat of his heart through his broken wrist. He doesn't notice that he's not holding the machete anymore, but that could be because he can no longer feel his left hand.

Through the fuzz of pain, Dean sees the witch flex, lick her thumb, and wipe it neatly along the slice in her stomach, where any other person – any other  _human_ – would have been clinging to their organs. As he watches, the smooth brown skin knits back together flawlessly. She rolls her shoulders, pulling the skin taut, and then twirls the machete in one hand. "Not that easy, sweetie," she tells him coldly.

"Jesus Christ," Dean groans, struggling upright through the blur of agony.

"Guess again."

She kicks him square in the chest.

Dean crashes into the coffee table so hard that the central panel cracks in half and he finds himself lying dazed amongst broken wood, scattered paper, and the bleeding limbs of one dead demon. Sam is tangled in the arms of the other, both fighting to get the advantage as hands are closing around throats and feet are skidding for purchase.

Dean staggers back to his feet, bracing himself for the onslaught – and sure enough, the witch flies forward, machete-first, but Dean's ready. He turns as fast he has can, trying to overbalance as his sight and colours whirl – but he gets to one side and smacks her as hard as he can in the temple with his good fist. Then again, and again, and she stumbles but she's back now, and this time when she lunges, Dean gets caught out by the bright white spots throbbing in front of his eyes, and he doesn't move fast enough. He feels the rusty blade slice messily through the meat of his shoulder, taking his left arm completely out of action. Even so, blinking back the pain that clouds his sight, Dean manages to duck back from her second attempt to finish the job, and strikes out, putting his entire weight behind a backhand that snaps her head around to one side.

The witch swivels slowly back to stare at Dean, pure hatred in her eyes as a bright handprint stands out stark on her cheek. There's something unsettling about the calm hostility she radiates. She tosses her hair back and speaks, calling loudly over one shoulder.

The only issue is that the voice with which she shouts, "Hey, Cas – do you mind? We're getting our asses handed to us over here, man!" is not her own.

It's Dean's.

Castiel is now kneeling, the body of the male demon crumpled, pale and empty before him, fingers twitching as the last of his blood is drained. At the sound of Dean's voice, however, Castiel turns. His eyes glitter black.

"No," Dean croaks, understanding at last, but Castiel doesn't hear that. "Cas – no!"

"Dean," Castiel says quietly. There is a threatening undertone to his voice, and Dean doesn't know whether that bubbling anger is directed towards him or those who threaten him.

"Cas," the witch calls, dragging the word out long, low and Southern, the exact way Dean does. She grins, backing away from Dean in lazy, confident steps. "Please –  _Cas_!"

"Cas, no!" Dean warns him, fear and comprehension swimming like a nest of scorpions in his belly. Remembering all the times that Castiel has clutched at him desperately, black-eyed and confused – and most of all, blind. Directed purely by irrational emotion and the demonic twist that makes everything dangerous. "Cas, man, you know me. It's the witch, don't listen to her!"

The witch tips back her head and laughs. Dean flies at her, fists bared to slam the shit out of her until she bleeds and surrenders, white-flag apology for being a trophy bitch, but she flicks her hand the other way, smashes a dent in a bookcase, and then screams low in the back of her throat. " _Cas_!"

Castiel stands slowly, and as he climbs to his feet, there is a rushing whisper like wind unfurling that near enough threatens to rip the skin from Dean's body. Any window that was left standing after the witch broke the Devil's Traps explodes in all directions. Light bulbs shatter around Castiel, raining sparks and glass. Castiel has that determined jut to his jaw, and blind or not, he levels that sightless black gaze on the direction of Dean's voice. There is no uncertain sway to his stance now.

"Dean," he rasps, his voice a gravelly rumble with the faintest edge of a sharp high whine, like he's a hairsbreadth from slipping over into eardrum-shattering Enochian. "It's okay, Dean. They're mine... and I am theirs." He slurs his words, drunk on blood. "They won't hurt you, Dean. Dean... they – it's okay. I'm here."

"Cas, it isn't me!" Dean yells. He looks around frantically for Sam, needing help, but Sam is preoccupied – the last demon has Ruby's old knife now, parrying blow for blow in Sam's attempts to get it back, and slashing at him in return. Dean is on his own. "Don't – Cas-"

Lamb's blood. Dean has got to find lamb's blood. Without it, there's no killing the witch, and with the witch still around, they're basically screwed all to hell.

He has to get to the kitchen.

"Please, help," the witch calls desperately, throwing her voice – or his voice, judging by the low Winchester rumble she's pitching – so that it echoes all around the room. For a guy who can't see, there's no telling where it's coming from. "You know me, Cas –we watched that French musical – the freaking Miserables, or something, I don't know – and I hated almost every second of it except for that one hot girl, but you were all caught up in the battle and you told me it reminded you of home and I said that was fucked up but that it was okay? You remember that?"

"Hey,  _I_ watched that with him." Dean's mouth falls slightly open, caught between fury and possessive jealousy that the witch is somehow worming her way into his brain, taking all the memories that he was guarding close and keeping safe, and using them all against him. Rage wells up in Dean so hot and fierce that he has half a mind to beat the shit out of her on principle – but that won't kill her, and ganking her is the priority right now. " _I_ watched that with him. Cas, come on-"

"Don't listen to her, Cas-"

" _Cas-_ "

Screaming, echoing in a small space growing smaller as wind and darkness fills the room with that unmistakable gentle roar of wings unfurling. "Stop it," Castiel says, his jaw tight, teeth clenched together. "Just  _stop_ it."

"This is fucking ridiculous," Dean snaps, and he's striding forwards, reaching out. "Look, Cas, I understand that it's confusing, I do, but-"

His fingers have barely brushed the material of Castiel's ugly worn sweater before there is an invincible clamping on his throat, crushing the air from his windpipe – " _get away from me!"_ \- and then he is hurled into the far distance, hitting the wall with a crash and a thump and the jolt of the mangled bones in his wrist.

"Fuck, fuck,  _fuck-_ " Dean rolls to his feet, biting back the agony that courses through him like electric currents, disabling his arm. He leaves a great red smear from his shoulder all across the floorboards.

Lamb's blood. That's the priority now.

Swearing under his breath, Dean staggers almost drunkenly into the kitchen. His left arm and side are slick and heavy with blood; his vision blots out occasionally in blurs and pixels – which is pretty counterproductive to his frantic search for  _anything_ that could be used to just freaking end this bitch. "Lamb's blood," he mutters dumbly, blinking hard to clear the white fog of blood loss creeping around across eyes. "Lamb's blood..."

Behind him somewhere, faint as though a hundred miles away, Dean hears the screech and crackle of a demon being internally fried via Ruby's knife, and then Sam yelling distantly. "Dean? Dean!"

"Lamb's blood, Sammy!" Dean growls, groping for the kitchen counter to support himself. He roughly yanks a drawer open, clatters through it.

Knives. A pot of herbs, which he accidentally up-ends. Dust everywhere. Tiny dark bottles with labels. Dean grabs one, squints at the label – yes – and spins.

"Sammy," he shouts again, but there's already the shuffle of fighting and violence, maniacal female laughter – and Castiel, standing in his way like he has a thousand-strong army at his back. Feet planted apart, arms slightly raised as though about to take flight, his eyes flashing dark in the flickering swing of the broken kitchen bulb.

"Put it down," Castiel rasps. "You cannot hurt them now."

Dean tightens his grip on the lid of the bottle. "It's me, Cas, and I need this," he says, his voice low, trying to be as unthreatening a figure as possible. "It's the only way to bring the witch down. You understand that we have to do that, don't you? Cas?"

"I said you don't get to call me that," Castiel snarls, and without warning, the bottle explodes in Dean's hand.

Glass, blood and small slivers of lamb's flesh scatter like raindrops. Dean doesn't even have time to protest or complain – Castiel is upon him, furious. Dean acts instinctively; before Castiel can reach him, Dean grabs him by the shoulders, digs his fingernails in deep. "Cas, listen to me, you dumb son-of-a-bitch,  _I need you_ , okay? Don't fucking lose it now, I need you, alright-"

"Stop it," Castiel says. His hands fly up and shove Dean back so hard that he hits the small of his back against the kitchen counter, slides, and slumps to the floor. Dean's feet scrabble for purchase, clambering to get back up, but then there are fists that find him – his jaw, his temple, his nose, again and again – he can feel blood pouring free down his face – Castiel is chanting idiotically, suddenly shaking so hard that his hands jerk wildly, almost beyond control. "Just  _stop it!_ "

"Cas-" Dean manages, spitting out a glob of blood. He struggles underneath Castiel, trying to free his feet to kick him in the chest, send him flying and get him out of the way, but he's pinned. He can only get one arm up, but it's his damn luck that it's the left, where he can barely even curl his fingers.

" _Stop it, stop it, stop it—"_

Dean would almost swear he can feel his cheekbone cracking, giving in, and then, maybe because Castiel is merciful, even as a demon, those long-fingered hands find his throat and clutch tight.

"You will not harm Dean Winchester," Castiel snarls insistently, again and again. "You  _will not-_ "

"Cas –  _Cas_ -"

Dean flails and kicks. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He is going to die like this and there is nothing he can do. He stretches out with his bad hand towards the shards of broken glass where the bottle of lamb's blood broke, but it is just beyond his grasp. His fingernails scratch and squeak on the floor-tiles, the sound screeching in Dean's ears. He lifts his other hand to claw hopelessly at Castiel's around his throat, attempting to pry those fingers free, but Castiel's strong – half-angel, half-demon, and completely unstoppable.

"Cas, please-"

Dean's vision is fading out at the corners. His chest is heaving uselessly.

"Cas, don't do this," Dean chokes out desperately.

He is running out of options, staring up into a flushed, blood-spattered face blank of all personal recognition. He is fighting blind and confused and angry.

Dean gives up. It's a simple move, his hands from Castiel's squeezing fingers to Castiel's face. " _Cas,_ " he begs once last time. "You gripped me tight and raised me from perdition, remember? Don't send me back there!  _Goddamnit_ , Cas!"

The element of surprise is in the way that Castiel leans forward, determined not to be pushed back by Dean's flails and throes; it is in the way that Castiel is not expecting to be pulled in.

Dean drags him down like he's drowning and crushes their mouths together hard.

Castiel fights. He wriggles and squirms, but Dean's hands anchor him still, holding him with a scrape of teeth and the crust of dried demon blood and wet lips that has too much depending on it to be romantic, and Dean bites down on Castiel's lip so hard that he can taste the dark salt of blood on his tongue.

Dean doesn't let up for one second, even when Castiel slackens, caving in on himself in pain and disorientation – Dean's got to be sure - but then Castiel's hands are limp and clammy on Dean's throat, and Dean pulls back wetly, his head smacking into the floor tiles.

Castiel's eyes are closed. They open slowly, flutter, and open blue.

His eyebrows pull together, crinkle, frightened and bewildered. "Dean?" he breathes fearfully.

Dean huffs out his breath, relieved beyond words. "Cas," he says – and then he jerks upwards and forward, headbutting him as hard as he can. The crack of skulls seems to ring and ring, but there isn't time for a concussion now. Dean jams his knee into Castiel's stomach, launches him into the distance, where he crashes against the leg of the kitchen table.

Then Dean's up and gone.

There's a roaring like an engine, building then falling – crash and bang of furniture or doors and windows – grunting and raw, throat-searing shouts, a million miles away – a thunderous four-four drum pounding hard, threatening to punch a hole straight through his head and out the other side. Dean is very, very tired. He stumbles to the site of the broken bottle, stoops, and drags his fingers clumsily through the lamb's blood, scraping the linoleum. He hurries back into the library, hand dripping.

This is all they've got.

He comes back into a room where Sam and the witch are grappling seemingly in slow-motion. A fist flies out, catches Sam in the ear, and he recoils – that's all the time it takes the witch to knock the demon knife right out of his hand.

"Sam," Dean tries to say, tries to shout, but it gets stuck in his throat. His legs won't cooperate either. His head is swimming, swirling, and the only sense that he can pin anything to is the sticky weight of blood on his skin and clothes and pooling under his feet. Dean wonders idly if Bobby even  _has_ a copper blade that he could take advantage of. Dean grabs the rusty machete from where it is abandoned on the floor. He can barely identify colour anymore; his vision is blurred and greyscale, and it could be gold leaf for all he can tell. He smears half-dried lamb's blood onto it and rushes forwards.

By then, the witch has the upper hand, and the knife, and her body over Sam's, pinning him frozen.

Dean isn't going to get there in time.

He can only scream, " _Sammy_!" and this time his voice works and roars and reverberates around his own head.

There is just this: Sam's last helpless kick. The glint of the knife in the air. The triumphant smirk that distorts the witch's face.

And then, somehow, suddenly a sharp, glittering tip emerging fast and bloody from her chest.

Her smiles freezes in place. Blood bubbles up slowly over her teeth.

The witch's every muscle locks up solid and then, the silhouette of her skull lighting up blue beneath her borrowed face, she spasms, once, and then slumps over onto Sam's chest.

What looks like a long, copper samurai sword sticks out of her back, and standing just behind her, flushed with shock, and clad in a ridiculously puffy jacket and bobble-hat—

\- is none other than Becky Rosen.

Dean blinks a couple of times and wonders if she's a bloodloss-derived hallucination.

"Uh... that was the bad guy, right?" she squeaks uncertainly.

Sitting up and massaging his throat, Sam coughs out with a tired smile, "Yeah, Becky. That was the bad guy."

Becky still looks extremely uncomfortable, but she doesn't even cringe back as her eyes flicker over the bodies of the demons and the witch respectively. "They really trashed the place," she comments awkwardly. As Sam struggles back to his feet, still coughing, she looks like she wants to help him up and baby him, but she holds back. Instead she clears her throat, and says, "Wow, you guys look like you could kill for a beer."

Dean feels like he is teetering on a dangerous precipice between laughing hysterically and crying at that. His knees are slowly giving out and he's pretty sure he has a concussion – and here Becky is, out of nowhere, saving the day (which is a little embarrassing, but welcome all the same) and hell, even offering to break out the booze.

"Sam," Dean says, waving a hand ambiguously in the air as he sinks heavily into the library's desk chair, before he collapses, "I don't care if she writes porn about freaking Hitler – she's got my blessing."

Becky squeals.


	18. Chapter 18

It was always generally assumed that Becky Rosen would tear Sam and Dean apart, but in the end, she actually puts them back together.

She starts by patching up the basement, roughly repainting the main Devil's Trap, and while the paint is drying, she helps Sam to carry Castiel downstairs. Dean is lurking in the kitchen, trying not to bleed all over the place and generally feeling a little neglected when Becky comes back in, red-cheeked from the exertion of lifting a dead-weight angel, and tells him to budge up, shut up, and stop fussing. Then, without further ado, she carefully sets his wrist, bandages it tight, and stitches up his shoulder – apologising as she does so that she's blurring the thumb part of what she calls ' _the romantic mark left by Castiel calling dibs'_. Dean isn't too bothered, considering that she is literally sewing his skin back together.

Becky chatters to him as she works. Turns out that she hadn't thought much of Sam's Code Maroon bullshit either – as soon as Sam sent out the signal, she had packed up her small collection of animal bones and bile jars for some serious Summoning. She'd won Gabriel's favour by putting her primarily-useless fangirl abilities into crudely sculpting a supermodel out of nothing but Twix bars, and then got to the bottom of exactly what was going on.

"See, the witch wasn't just any old witch – in her true form, she was an ancient warrior," Becky explains as she ties a neat knot in Dean's stitches. "And she just happened to be someone who used to fight alongside Kali, and so of course Gabriel is totally under Kali's control since they got together – you remember, in Hammer Of The Gods? When Lucifer tried to kill Gabriel, I mean. Remember? And so Gabriel  _wanted_ to tell you guys, and he tried really hard when he realised what was going on – he came to see you and everything - but he just couldn't because Kali had put some big spell on him using his true Enochian name. Luckily enough, Kali forgot about one little loophole – me!" Becky finishes breathlessly, flushed with excitement. She wipes the last of the blood from Dean's shoulder and applies a large gauze sticking bandage over the stitches. "There, now be careful with that. Go easy on it... but otherwise, you're good as new!"

 

"Thanks." Dean smiles up at her, and he means it.

Three days and several trips to the hospital later, Bobby gets home, and by that stage the house has at least been restored to some semblance of order, although patching up the roof tiles and broken floorboards will take more time still. Seeing him again is a massive relief and slightly unsettling in equal measure, as Dean can't shift the feeling that any second now Bobby's going to melt into some psychotic chick. Thankfully, Bobby shows no signs of going batshit, except to complain loudly and at length that the monster that's been pretending to be him for over a month had better be the handsomest devil under the sun, although by that time, the witch is little more than ashes.

And Sam. Well... it's a massive freaking cliché and sometimes it makes Dean's skin crawl, but he's never seen Sam so happy, and he can't resent Becky for that. Together they run all around the house and property: tidying up, restoring order, burying bodies, the whole shebang. Becky doesn't flinch from scraping dried demon blood from the floorboards, or from digging graves while Dean's broken wrist has him out of action. She also eats like a bear, putting Dean to shame with her love of double-cheese-and-bacon burgers (heavy on the cheese and bacon) and tries her hardest to get Sam to join in. She fails, of course, and Sam sticks with his pansy salads, but she's only human.

Then again, humanity is under-rated.

Every night Dean is woken by the sound of Castiel's hollow screams drifting up from the panic room. Dean wonders if Castiel will remember the little things, like sneezing and drunken hysteria and the warmth of Dean's body curled around him. It's a lot to ask for, he realises – he would just settle for Cas.

There's unfinished business first.

* * *

Dean walks out to Sioux Falls early one morning before the others can tell him off, and he gets on a bus headed for Cicero, Indiana.

It's a four-day trip there and back, made more difficult by the fact that he has to battle with things like duffel-bags and doors like a one-handed gimp, but he's gone further with worse before. He sleeps on cold, hard benches in bus terminals and eats hot meals from crappy fast-food chains. People stare. He doesn't entirely blame them; he catches glimpses of himself in the bathroom mirrors when he brushes his teeth in the communal bathroom. Bust lip, black eye, split eyebrow, and general bruising over every inch of his visible skin. He feels like an advert for domestic violence.

It's his second night when he actually starts to think. He's settled for the evening in Davenport, Iowa. He's licking the last of a steak sandwich from his fingers, considering washing up so that he can get some sleep, and watching the last buses pull out of the terminal, one by one, and disappear into the glitter of street-lamps and fluorescent road-signs, when he remembers that the Braedens have moved house.

Shit. They've moved house. They've already moved a couple times around Cicero – maybe they're still there. They might have given up though, and completely relocated. City, state, everything.

He pulls out his cell phone and flicks through the old numbers. The number that Dean has been using has a Utah area code.

_Utah._

He isn't even sure whereabout in Utah either... he doesn't know Utah too well, and he has no way of looking up the number to see where it is. If Castiel was here, he could just zap Dean to the right place instantly – Castiel always knows exactly where he needs to go. Dean could call Sam, ask him to Google it, but that would feel like admitting defeat.

There is just Dean. Sitting stranded in a bus terminal in Iowa, and the Braedens live in freaking Utah.

Of course, Dean could always call Lisa up and ask her directly... except it's past ten PM, and she'll be busy or tired or having fun, and the last thing she'll want is to hear from Dean so that he can find her.

Actually... the last thing she would want is to hear from Dean. Period. Tonight, or tomorrow, or next week when he rolls up sweaty and dirty from travel. He'll just appear on her doorstep and ring the bell, and what? What would Dean do if he did find them? Lisa has some new guy – Keith or Kevin or something – and Ben has grown up. Dean tries to picture himself there, bloody and bruised and imposing on their nice family dinner.  _'Hey, I just dropped by to say...'_

He didn't drop by to say anything. He doesn't really want to go back so there would be nothing but vague, unhelpful apologies that do nothing but stir the past back up.  _I'm sorry I never came back. I'm sorry that you thought I was the perfect father. I'm sorry that I wasn't. I'm sorry._

Dean stares out of the wide, grubby window in front of him. In the harsh, sterile light from the overly-harsh station bulbs, he can see the smears of tiny hands from sticky children on the glass. On the other side, a young woman shifts from foot to foot, shivering in the chilly air as the sun goes down. Her cascade of glossy dark hair is all at once so like and so unlike Lisa's that Dean feels unreasonably frustrated, as though he's been deceived. He wishes things could just be simple – like the long, calm looks he shares with Castiel when shit piles up too high. Dean would give anything for one of those looks now, no matter how socially inept or patronising.

Maybe Dean isn't mean to find the Braedens. Dean has learnt enough about the way the world works to know that destiny isn't just a trick that old women with tarot cards pull on young romantics. Lisa has someone else now, and Ben will feel Dean's absence for a time, but he'll forget. Dean was nothing more than a boyfriend, a romantic experiment for his mother, and there will be others. The best thing for Ben and Lisa is to forget, and for that, Dean is the best place he could ever be. Lost.

Well, that's just great.

That dissatisfying revelation leaves Dean sitting dumbly in a cold bus terminal, feeling stupid and hurt and a bit sorry for himself. He should go home. Home to Sam and Becky giggling idiotically at some chemistry joke – although if he hears another joke about the guy who kills himself ordering H202... – home to Bobby's grouchy endearments and alcohol cupboard, home to new monster cases and never resting in the same place long.

Home to Castiel.

This is when Dean thinks, for the first time, strangely, that perhaps he can't stop coming back to Castiel not because he's a constant, but because he's the only one Dean ever wanted.

That's it. No earth-shattering moment of clarity. No epiphany.

Dean just sits on a bench in Iowa and says to himself, "Oh."

He is there for all of two minutes, sitting in stupor and watching the buses pull out. Then, in a heartbeat, he is snatching up all his bags in his one good arm and barging inelegantly through the revolving door, out into the evening, because one of these buses will be the last bus going towards South Dakota, and he'd damn well better be on it.

He has an appointment.

* * *

It's a long, dusty two days back, on cheap buses that rattle and stink of bodily fluids. Dean climbs off at the Sioux Falls stop exhausted and ominously stained by the bus furniture – a great start for a melodramatic gay love declaration, or whatever it is that he's been vaguely planning on the way back. It's a long walk out of town to get back to Bobby's place as well, so Dean reluctantly gives in and calls Sam.

"How was Vegas?" Sam leans over and teases through the window as he pulls up.

"Shuddup," Dean says, throwing his duffel-bag in and aiming for Sam's smug face. He swings in, taking care with his bad arm, and hits the radio for music. He cranks the music up high and relishes in the unimpressed face that Sam pulls. "So where's the Beckster?"

"The  _Beckster?_ " Sam echoes incredulously, his eyebrows almost lifting to his hairline.

"Yeah." Dean looks across, straight-faced and bobbing a little to the music. "What's wrong with – what? Come on! Beckster? Beckenator? No?" Dean huffs and scowls at Sam. "Cut me some slack, dude, I'm trying to – I dunno – welcome her to the familyhere or something. Okay, shut up. Shut up! Just... drive."

Sam is still laughing, but he puts the Impala into gear and heads off. "Becky's helping Bobby to fix the roof-tiles," he explains as they gun down the main road out of town. "Well, I say  _helping._ She has like a lifetime supply of vouchers for Home Depot so she's really just knocking herself out with that, and I think Bobby is just kind of watching over her to check that she doesn't decorate the house with bunting and sparkles or something."

Snorting, Dean shakes his head. "She'll be tattooing you with unicorns if you take your eyes off her for a second," he warns – jokingly, but with a nervous edge, seeing how Sam will take it.

"Pfft – tattooing me with fanart of our incestuous romance, more likely," Sam says, pulling a face. "Although she swears to God she's moved on – she says... well." Sam glances at him, the corners of his mouth quirking disobediently like he's trying really hard not to laugh. "She seems to have a thing for you and Cas at the moment."

"What?!" Dean exclaims, almost choking on his own spit. "Seriously? Seriously. How do you even know this?"

Sam grimaces. "I found a doodle. It was very detailed." He clears his throat and seems to be focusing very intently on the road ahead. "I think there was a lot of, uh,  _caressing_ ," he adds awkwardly.

"Caressing," he repeats. "Okay. Right. Well. Wow." He puffs out his cheeks, exhaling slowly and trying not to be weirded out. "Just so you know, there is no... ' _caressing_ ' going on or anything. You can tell her that."

"So..." Sam looks over at Dean briefly before the turn onto Bobby's property. "What is going on, then?" he asks almost too innocently.

Dean starts like he's been jabbed with a cattle-prod. "What? Nothing. Nothing is going on." He narrows his eyes suspiciously at Sam, who is very deliberately only watching the gravel road ahead and wrestling with the beginning of a shit-eating grin. " _What?"_  Dean demands. He exhales roughly. He looks up to the ceiling, vaguely hoping that the mothership will beam him up and take him away from this conversation, because quite frankly, he'd pick the Fourth Kind Butt Encounter over this discussion of his freaking  _intentions_ or whatever. "I mean, yeah, he's – but – no. No! Okay, look, Sammy, I appreciate that you get off on talking about my feelings, but I don't need this. I don't need your... your little smirks and winks and implications that I'm in love with the dweeby alien."

Sam's tiny smile cracks into a big, stupid grin. Dean wants to shove that grin face-first into a wall, because it's never good. "I never said you were in love with him."

Yeah, Dean should have definitely pushed him into a wall. He rolls his eyes. "Holy crap, this is turning into an actual talk about my feelings." He beats at the car door with his fist. "Stop the car. Let me out."

Laughing so hard he shakes, Sam jerks the car to an untidy halt as told, but says, "Hey, man, I'm just telling it like it is! I warned you about going Brokeback, but-"

Without further ado, Dean smacks him upside the head with the back of his hand. A surprised laugh bursts out of Sam; he twists around and tries to hit Dean back, but Dean ducks out of the way. Sam settles for shoving him back into the car door.

"Jerk," he tells him, trying to look sad and disapproving, but his mouth quirks up at the corners, all  _I-swear-I-wasn't-in-the-cookie-jar_  like he used to be.

Dean pushes the car door open, but pauses with one foot on solid ground before he swings out. He turns slightly and they just look at each other.

Maybe all's not forgiven... but everything's okay.

"Bitch."

Sam sits back in his seat, grinning, before they climb out of their respective seats simultaneously, the slam of car doors ringing like a gunshot. They head up Bobby's front steps and as they reach the door, Sam turns to Dean and makes one final comment, with exaggerated solemnity: "Just remember, Dean, that when you settle down, the prettier one has to be the bride – and with your eyelashes-"

Dean is aiming a kick at Sammy's kneecaps when the front door creaks open. Bobby scowls at them – Dean especially – and grumbles, "Where in the hell've you been?"

"Good to see you too, Bobby," Dean replies cheerily, stepping past him. "You wouldn't have a beer open ready for me, would you?"

Bobby scowls, obstreperous as ever. "You are such a pain in my ass, boy. What do you think I am - a waitress?"

A thin arm appears out of nowhere, dangling over the side of the drainpipe lining Bobby's porch roof, and flails to get their attention. " _Can I have one too, please, Bobby?"_ Becky chirps excitably.

A loud babble of mocking laughter follows Bobby back into the house as he heads through to the kitchen, shaking his head and grumbling as he goes. Dean throws his duffel-bag onto the couch, barely missing a tall stack of leather-bound books piled up high on a cushion; clearly Bobby is already remaking claim on his home, returning it into his own.

"How's Cas, by the way?" Dean calls through the room, searching around for the TV remote, his injured hand tucked protectively into his stomach. He puts conscious effort into the casual disinterest in his tone, and tries not to crane after Bobby for the answer.

"Out!" Sam exclaims, grinning as he comes through. He quickly finds the remote under a tatty newspaper and flicks the TV onto a wildlife documentary. Recently Sam has been taking an unhealthy interest in beavers.

Dean's head snaps up instantly. "What?" he says, feigned coolness slipping away. "He's out of the panic room?"

"He's better than that," Bobby shouts from the kitchen. "He's out in the yard. Communing with nature or something."

"Put my beer on hold, will you?" Dean says as he brushes past Bobby on the way to the back door, his feet a blur beneath him. He can hear muted laughter from the library along with the sound of beaver footage squeaking happily, and something like  _idjits_  and then he's out.

Dean slams out through the kitchen door like a man on a mission but he stops dead, one foot on the gravel outside and one foot still hovering inside. All the resolve and determination that has carried him all the way back from Iowa is beating thunderous in his head, but he feels a little like he might throw up, like his stomach is trying to samba its way out of his butt and take all the other organs with it. His fingertips are fizzing.

Castiel is standing out by the garage, face lifted to the sun. He is wearing his trenchcoat.

His name bursts from Dean's mouth in an instinctive breath of affection, seeing his face turned up to the sun, cold December air pulling through his hair. "Cas." He walks forwards.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel is gazing up at the sky, arms slightly out from his sides as though preparing to take flight, or just enjoying the sensation of being able to. He has a black eye, purple ridges stark at his brow and cheekbones, and a swollen, bloody lip. Dean imagines he looks much the same. Still, the skin beneath Castiel's bruises is flushed and warm, and if the corners of his eyes are pulled down and crinkled from not getting enough sleep, at least he's sleeping.

Dean settles comfortably to stand beside him, but when Castiel turns his head to look over, his eyebrows pull together and he studies Dean with pained concern. "You look terrible," he says bluntly.

"Wow, thanks, man," Dean says sarcastically. "Don't worry – you look like shit too."

"I'm sorry to have done this to you," Castiel says quietly, completely ignoring Dean's usual douchebaggery.

Oh right. Dean has forgotten that Castiel, as a demon, had been using him as a human punch-bag. He shakes his head. "It wasn't really you. It's okay. Besides, if it's any consolation, the arm was someone else."

Dean lifts his bust arm, wincing as the stitches pull, and makes a face, but Castiel doesn't laugh – not even when Dean points out that Castiel's bust lip has given him a hilarious lisp. Neither of them mentions  _how_ his lip got so torn up. Dean wonders if Castiel even remembers that.

"What about you, then?" Dean prompts instead, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Castiel's head. "Can't you just mojo yourself better already?" A horrible thought hits him, sinking cold and clammy through his veins. "You did get your mojo back... didn't you?"

"Yes, I did." Castiel turns back to face forwards, tips his chin up a little, and watches the sky – which is clear and bright and cold as far as Dean can tell, but Castiel seems fascinated and content. The morning light picks out the thin lines around his eyes, more pronounced when a serene smile pulls faintly at his lips. "I can hear the Heavenly Host again. They're unimpressed," he adds ruefully, "but I can hear them. As for my injuries... I've decided to let my vessel heal naturally. Like a human." Castiel doesn't check Dean's expression but he seems to sense his confusion; he presses his lips together as though considering his words before explaining delicately: "In the past few days, they have served as a reminder to me whenever I'm weak."

"Weak?" Dean echoes, frowning.

Castiel looks over, his eyes sharp and solemn. "Thirsty."

"Oh." Dean doesn't really know what to say to that. He knows that Sam had some problems with his addiction for a while after he was detoxed, but he has kind of assumed that it would be different to angels. That they'd be less vulnerable. "How are you though?"

"I'm okay. Some days are harder than others. It's getting better, though," Castiel says. He looks down and flexes the fingers on one hand experimentally. He cracks a knuckle; makes a fist. "In general, it... hurts – but that's good. I remember that my face hurts because there are people who think I'm stronger. I remember that my back hurts because I'm finding my wings again, and I don't want to lose that. If I were to drink demon blood again..." he trails off, and Dean can't see his lip curl but he can hear the disgust thick in his voice. Castiel huffs a short breath and seems to recompose himself. He changes the topic. "Besides, that much demon blood could have destroyed my vessel – and I like my vessel."

"Me too," Dean says on auto-pilot.

Castiel's eyes flash sideways to meet Dean's and he has this dorky, amused glint there.

"What?" Dean says defensively. He can feel that humiliating flush heating up his ears and neck like some dumb pigtailed school-girl. He shrugs, trying to shake it off. "You know. It's kind of... uh, narrow. Goofy-looking. Shut up, man."

Castiel is trying not to smile, although Dean doesn't know why he looks so goddamn smug. It's not like the body is  _his_. Maybe he's just relishing in the way that Dean's being reduced to an embarrassing state of red-cheeked, awkward, hand-flailing.

Dean hates himself. Hates Castiel more. Dean doesn't even know why it's such a big deal admitting that he's got a boner for the skinny dark-haired guy, man-bits and all. Ugh. He's such a homosexual. He wonders if he would still feel the same way about Castiel if he was in a busty Asian beauty – but of course, that wouldn't happen, what with the whole One True Magical Vessel thing. He wonders idly if Jimmy Novak's daughter would be hot when she grows up.

"Dean!" Castiel says, sounding scandalised. "Claire is twelve years old!"

Blinking bewildered, Dean snaps back into the real world and promptly shoves at Castiel with his good hand. "Dude, get out my head! That is not the reason we gave you back your juice!" he says indignantly, reddening a little again. He hopes that's all Castiel was eavesdropping on. "Besides, she'll be twenty-one one day."

"And you'll be thirty-nine."

"And you'll be, what, ten millennia?" Dean retorts.

Castiel raises his eyebrows slightly and then his eyes lift to the sky again, seeking answers or maybe just remembering. "Try six-hundred-and-fifty-thousand," he corrects absently, squinting in the light.

Startled, Dean glances at Castiel. The early sunshine is harsh and brings out his eyes to a colour that Dean would call kind of stupidly blue, which is just so unfair. Dean tears his eyes away and stares out over the totalled cars piled up around the place. He came out here with a million intentions and he doesn't have the balls to do anything. Instead he tries to wrap his head around the millions of years for which Castiel has existed, stoic and stern and endlessly patient with the floundering of humanity – and the fact that he is here now, with a thin pink scar through his hairline and a black eye. He gives a low whistle. "Whoa."

"Approximately," Castiel adds nonchalantly. "I lose count. It's been a long time."

Dean finds himself staring at him in yet another moment of realising that he barely knows Castiel at all, feeling small and inadequate. He has known Castiel for three years, which seems like forever from his perspective, but Cas has probably seen whole amoeba evolutions in less time. Dean clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "So I guess this all seems pretty stupid to you," he says awkwardly.

"No." Castiel's voice is soft, rumbling reverent in his chest. He meets Dean's gaze, unperturbed by Dean's awkwardness and currently burning with that familiar, almost painful intensity. "In all my years, nothing has been more important than what I have found here."

In that instant, Dean knows what is coming. They are going to talk about their feelings and Dean isn't prepared. He came running all the way back through the Midwestern states for this, but he can't do it. He's never been able to – took his dad for granted, took everything Lisa had in exchange for sullen silence, showed his brother he cared through jokes and bottles of beer and shared bags of popcorn. Dean thinks he might throw up.

"I know what Gabriel said to you," Castiel says calmly. His face is a construction, carefully blank and stoic. Angelic.

"Uh," is the first thing that Dean says, because he's a literary genius like that. The second thing he says is: "What?"

Castiel doesn't dignify Dean's stupidity with a response – just holds Dean's eyes. There, Dean sees it now: a flicker of uncertainty, of mindless bravery, of determined confrontation. Something like hope. And through all of that, something much simpler, softer, carried in the crease of his battered brow and the slight downwards curve of his mouth and the way he  _looks_  at Dean.

Shit. Dean swallows hard. His throat is very dry. "Oh." His eyes drop to stare blindly through Castiel so that he doesn't have to focus on the wide blue eyes and the – the  _love_  that is written so terrifyingly plain across his features. He gulps again. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Castiel says simply.

Dean's words hadn't even been intended as a question, more as a provocation for Castiel to continue with his awkward little monologue, but it's out there now. Yes. Castiel loves Dean, and he says it so shamelessly, like he's completely sure of himself. Dean wishes he had that. All he has is the overwhelming, deafening pulse of fear and want and hope and fear through his ears, and the clenched fists to keep from trembling. "Okay," he tries again. "Uh. Well."

Dragging his eyes away, Castiel gives a small, frustrated sigh, and quietly says, "I don't expect anything from you, Dean." Now it's his turn to stare stonily into the distance, his face scrunching up under the scrapes and bruises, jaw pulled tight.

Okay. This is Dean's chance. He's just gotta... go for it.

"But, Cas—" Dean starts hesitantly, and his throat chokes up. "What if-" He licks his lips roughly, takes a deep breath, and blunders on. "What if I expect something from you? What if I...  _want_ something?"

Head still turned to one side, Castiel's eyes flicker over to watch Dean cautiously, like a trapped bird. Slowly, he comes back to face Dean, and his head tips over a little to the side. "What do you want?" he asks, confused and wary.

"Right now?" Dean laughs nervously. "To be honest, right now I'd really like to stop feeling like I'm gonna hurl. But also, I—"

Castiel is still watching him. The light is in his face, making him screw up his eyes and nose, his eyelashes casting feathery shadows over his eyes. He is waiting.

"Right now, I also want to kiss you," Dean finally blurts out. "Just once – or a couple times, maybe, even, you know – but, uh – just - without... without you going unconscious, or turning into a demon, or trying to kill me – and without Sam freaking interrupting, okay? That's it. That's what I want." He sucks in a deep breath, rocking back on his heels, and gives a curt nod. "Yeah."

After a beat, Castiel says haltingly, "Okay."

Dean starts, confused. For a second he just stares. "Okay?" he repeats incredulously. Then he laughs again – he can't help himself – and he feels his shoulders sinking, like a weight has been lifted. "Okay, fine. Okay." He exhales a long, shaky breath. "You know—"

"Dean," Castiel says, taking one neat step forwards. "Stop talking."

Idiotically, Dean doesn't; instead, he says, "I can do that."

Castiel is close enough now that Dean can see the line of blood cutting through his lip. Dean swallows again, hard. He can feel Castiel's shallow breath on his mouth. Castiel is less than an inch away, not moving, not speaking. He just looking up into Dean's face through his lashes like he's waiting to be pushed away, and Dean doesn't. Castiel's gaze falls to Dean's mouth - Dean's breath snags – and then Castiel clumsily pushes their mouths together.

The kiss is almost painfully light; Dean can feel the thin scab where he bit through last time. There violent hammering against his chest, and it takes him a dizzy second to realise that it's not his heart but Castiel's, beating desperately with every second of contact, every careful, soft grazing of lips and then, later, every cautious push of tongue. Dean's good hand settles gently on Castiel's waist under the trenchcoat, warm even through his T-shirt, and Castiel lifts both hands to curl into the short, fine hair at the nape of Dean's neck, anchoring him there. Castiel leans forwards and then they are pressed together, their bodies one long, solid line, and they cling to each with gentle, split-knuckled hands like each is the only thing holding the other up.

They are interrupted, as always.

A high, piercing scream comes from the near-distance, followed by the garbled words:  _"Oh my god, it's CANON!"_

Right. Of course. Becky is still hovering on the freaking roof.

Dean pulls away – trying to ignore the low, needing noise that escapes Castiel's mouth as he does so – and looks over at Bobby's house. Becky is crouched by the chimney, pressing her fists into her mouth as she tries not to shriek anymore, and, Jesus Christ, she's actually shaking with excitement. Worse still, Dean sees a flurry of movement from the kitchen window, like a furtive audience scrambling to get away from the scene of a crime.

Dean groans, his eyes closing in dismay. He hears the far-off rattle of roof-tiles and drainage-pipes as Becky scrambles to get down, presumably to run inside and flail some more with Sam.

When he opens his eyes again, the first thing he sees is Castiel. Still close enough that Dean can count the pale pinpricks of stitches-scars from when he bashed his head on a table. Still pressed into him so that Dean can't tell where the heat of one body ends and the other begins. Fingers still pushed through his hair and holding him steady. Castiel's eyes are blue and unspeakably soft, watching Dean intently as though he still expects him to back off and run away.

"I think I was a little too ambitious in asking for all that  _and_ no interruptions," Dean says, smiling weakly.

"Perhaps," Castiel replies. He breathes slow, blinks once, and then pushes forwards again until his nose bumps Dean's – and there he pauses, finding Dean's eyes again and says, "But I get the sense that they're going to leave us alone now."

"You should really stay out of people's heads," Dean tells him distractedly, his attention caught like a broken record on the planes of Castiel's body and his slightly-parted lips. "And there may still be an aftershock."

At that, Castiel actually laughs, just a short huff of breath. "Isn't there always?"

He kisses him again, shallow but insistent, and the hand on his waist slips around to press flat against the small of his back and pull him closer. Every nerve ending is static as Castiel sighs softly against his mouth, hands drifting until his thumb lines up with the slope of Dean's jaw, fingers curling underneath.

The universe doesn't stop around them; there are no fireworks. This is real, not a fairy-tale, and the world keeps going, relentless. Somewhere out there a demon is making some poor bastard his bitch and a poltergeist is tearing a family apart and Sam is planning his picket fence, but right now Dean is grounded.

He has the weight of Castiel's body, the calloused scuff of his hands, and they're going to soldier on.

**END**


End file.
